My wife's best friend had just become the chief physician of the anorectal department.
Because of his age, patients avoided him. Without hesitation, my wife, Michelle Carter, asked him to issue me a fake exam certificate showing I had a loose anus.
It was all a publicity stunt.
Young women started bringing their boyfriends, pretending to get exams just to dig into their partners' pasts.
The campaign worked—and my reputation was utterly destroyed.
When I received yet another harassing call, I finally brought up divorce.
Michelle didn’t get it. She waved it off:
“He’s not as pitiful as the patients, so I helped him out. I’ll pay, you just go along—what’s so wrong with that?”
“Sure,” I replied dryly.
Whatever Michelle wanted to do for Maxwell Morgan, she'd do it—even if I refused.
But I won’t be her stepping stone again. “Sign it.”
——
Across the desk, Michelle leaned back, undoing her collar button, impatience flitting across her brows.
“So your reputation took a hit. It’s just gossip. You're my husband—Michelle's. With the Carter family name, who can really touch you?”
Same old excuses.
I smiled faintly. “Remember your dad’s birthday? The tea was laced with weeds, but you made me take the fall.”
Because of that, Mr. Carter had me kneel in the ancestral hall for three days straight.
By the time I got up, rumors of me giving fake gifts to deceive my in-laws had exploded.
The media, netizens, relatives—they all came after me.
Back then, Michelle said something in the same calm voice.
“Are you really that upset just because I asked for a few favors? Sophia is young and single. If people say she gives gifts to men, it’ll ruin her future.”
“Oh?” I met her eyes. “I’m two months older and married. I guess I don’t need a future.”
Was that it?
Maybe that’s all I ever was in her mind.
Michelle looked annoyed, her polished nails tapping the table.
“At worst, I’ll take you abroad for some downtime, okay?”
“You’re seriously asking for a divorce over something this minor?”
I was about to reply when the fingerprint lock clicked and the office door swung open.
Maxwell walked in, squinting slightly, and set a lunchbox on the coffee table.
He looked startled to see me.
“Oh—Zachary’s here too.”
“Sorry, I didn’t know you’d be here today. I only brought two soups...”
I didn’t respond. I glanced at Michelle, left the divorce papers on her desk, and turned to go.
Her office lock only recognized her fingerprint. She once said she didn’t like being disturbed while working. Whenever I came, I waited outside.
Since the gift incident, her father had stopped asking me to bring her soup.
But judging by Maxwell’s ease, he’d clearly been coming for lunch regularly.
That thought made me pause. I turned back and asked him:
“When did you register your fingerprint for this door?”
He blinked. “The first day I delivered soup.”
“I see.”
So in Michelle’s mind, only her husband’s presence counted as a disruption.
