"Lady, what kind of wife goes around badmouthing her own husband like this?"
"Besides, Mr. Gilbert is so capable—he even runs his own company. Girls would kill for a man like that."
"If you ask me, you're just one of those jealous shrews who can't stand the thought of him falling for someone younger. You're trying to get rid of me, aren't you? Well, let me make one thing perfectly clear—"
"Unless Mr. Gilbert fires me himself, I'm not going anywhere."
Gladys bit down hard on those last few words.
A challenge. A declaration of war.
The line went dead.
Silence swallowed the room. I let out a breath so quiet even I barely heard it.
There's a saying that makes more sense to me now than it ever did before.
You can't save someone who doesn't want to be saved.
After that, Gladys stopped pretending altogether.
She made a sport of answering Warren's phone—no matter where he was, no matter who might hear.
According to her, he was always "passed out drunk at some hotel" or "getting a massage."
She even posted a photo of them on social media. Both of them. Clothes rumpled. Skin flushed.
Visible only to me.
Her lipstick kept "accidentally" appearing in Warren's car.
His shirt collars kept coming home with smears of red that had no business being there.
I pretended not to notice. Maybe that's why she escalated.
Gladys started showing up at my doorstep, clutching folders, claiming she needed Warren's signature on "urgent documents."
She'd stay for dinner.
Her eyes would roam the villa the entire time, drinking it in, envy flickering behind every glance.
"Mr. Gilbert, you're amazing," she gushed one evening. "Only in your early thirties and you already own a mansion like this."
Warren's gaze darted away. "Let's just eat."
I watched them both. Said nothing.
Let him keep his little secret.
Only after Gladys left—reluctant, lingering, savoring her stolen moment—did I let the smile drop.
"Why didn't you tell her the truth?" My voice was ice. "That this villa is rented?"
"She thinks she's landed herself a billionaire. She has no idea the billionaire is a fraud."
Warren's face contorted. "Shut your mouth, Jade!"
He shot a glance out the window, confirming Gladys was truly gone, then leaned in close. His voice dropped to a hiss.
"I'm warning you. Keep your mouth shut about things that don't concern you."
"Otherwise?" He smiled, slow and ugly. "I'll take out a million-dollar loan. In both our names. And you can spend the rest of your life paying it back."
He strolled out, satisfaction rolling off him in waves.
I stood frozen, a stone lodged in my throat.
I'd wanted this marriage so badly once. Dreamed of it. Fought for it.
Now it was a noose around my neck.
He could walk into any bank with our marriage certificate and borrow a million dollars. Spend every cent. And because we were legally married, the debt would be ours. Mine to shoulder whether I'd touched a dime of it or not.
The thought made my stomach turn—bile and helplessness and rage all churning together.
After he left, the softness bled out of my eyes.
Divorce. That's the only thing that matters now.
I tried everything. Reasoned with him. Begged. Even cooked an elaborate dinner just to get him in a good enough mood to discuss terms.
Warren refused. Every single time.
Until one night, three months later.
My stomach was in knots—stress, probably, or maybe I'd finally developed an ulcer from swallowing my anger. I went to the hospital for something to settle it.
That's when I saw them.
Warren, cradling Gladys in his arms, rushing through the emergency room doors like the world was ending.
I hung back. Listened.
The doctor's voice carried through the thin curtain. "Ruptured corpus luteum."
Then, a weary sigh. "You two need to be more careful. I understand you're newlyweds, but this kind of... enthusiasm can be dangerous."
Warren rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish as a schoolboy caught behind the bleachers.
"Sorry, Doc. We'll be more careful next time."
