On our seventh wedding anniversary, my husband's first love came back to the country.
Victor pushed the divorce agreement in front of me：“She's back. Time to give her place back.”
I signed. Left the marriage with nothing.
He still thought I was the same orphan girl with no family and no one to turn to.
What he didn't know was that my father's name is Joshua Henson, and two-thirds of the real estate in this city belongs to the Henson name.
What he really didn't know?
That thirty-million-dollar funding round his company just closed came from my father.
…….
The divorce agreement was already on the table when Victor was still on the phone.
His back was to me, his voice so tender it practically dripped.
“You've landed? I'll send my driver.”
“The apartment's all set up. If you don't like it, we'll find another one.”
“Belinda, what I owe you—I could never repay it in this lifetime.”
He hung up and turned around. The smile hadn't left his face yet. Then his eyes met mine, and the warmth drained out, replaced by a thin coat of guilt.
“Bernice, just sign it.”
He pushed the agreement toward me. He'd already uncapped the pen.
I picked up the glass of water on the table and took a sip.
“Victor, have you forgotten what today is?”
He finally looked up. A small crease between his brows, like he was trying to recall a date that didn't matter much.
Then came a flash of recognition. No guilt. Just awkwardness.
“Seven years.” he said. “Bernice, it's been seven years. Belinda waited for me for seven years. I can't make her wait any longer.”
“And?”
“So step aside.”
I asked him：“Victor, when did you and Belinda get together?”
He was quiet for a few seconds.
“Seven years ago.”
My hand tightened around the glass.
“What did you just say?”
“Bernice.” He took a deep breath, the tone of a man who considered the matter already settled. “Belinda and I have been together for seven years. She's the one I should have married. You were caught in the middle—you're not happy either.”
“I was caught in the middle?”
“If you're willing—” he paused, as though he were making an enormous concession, “you don't have to leave after the divorce. Belinda's generous enough to make room.”
I froze.
It took a full three seconds for the meaning to land.
He was asking me to stay on as his mistress.
Seven years of marriage, and his offer was five hundred thousand dollars and a spot as the other woman.
“Victor.” I laughed. I didn't even know how I managed it. “Do you actually think I can't survive without you?”
When I married Victor seven years ago, he was sleeping in the subdivided room I rented, eating the discount ramen I bought, wearing T-shirts I'd picked up off sidewalk tables for a few bucks.
He told me, Bernice, once I make it, I'll give you anything you want.
Now his company was valued at a billion dollars. Three villas under his name. A Maybach in the driveway.
His payout to me: five hundred thousand.
Zero point zero five percent.
“Not happy with the terms?” He leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. “Name your price.”
I hadn't said a word this whole time.
I was thinking about how long it takes a person to fall out of love.
For him, maybe all it took was one text message.
Three days ago, Belinda Winfield posted on social media：Finally home. Location tagged at the airport.
Victor's phone buzzed.
He glanced at the screen, then glanced at me. That look. I knew it too well.
Seven years of that look, over and over. Irritated. Assessing. Impatient. Like he was saying：Why are you still here.
That night he tossed and turned and never fell asleep.
The next day, he had the divorce papers printed.
