I Faked My Suicide to Ruin My Husband’s Empire

I woke before dawn, my heart racing with a mixture of hope and dread. Today marked our second wedding anniversary, and I was determined to make one final attempt to reach Nathan's heart. After two years of marriage, I still clung to the desperate belief that somewhere beneath his cold exterior was the boy I'd loved since childhood.

Slipping out of our bed—where we slept on opposite sides, a chasm of emptiness between us—I padded barefoot to the kitchen of our Manhattan penthouse. The marble countertops gleamed in the dim light as I began preparing Nathan's favorite dishes: beef Wellington with truffle sauce, roasted asparagus with hollandaise, and the chocolate soufflé he'd once praised during a business dinner.

My hands trembled slightly as I worked. How many times had I done this? Crafted elaborate meals, planned perfect evenings, only to be met with indifference or, worse, irritation? Yet I continued, like a moth drawn repeatedly to a flame that had burned it countless times before.

"This time will be different," I whispered to myself, the words hanging hollow in the empty kitchen.

I transformed our formal dining room with meticulous care. Crystal glasses caught the light from dozens of candles I'd arranged around the room. Rose petals formed a path from the elevator to the table. A bottle of Nathan's favorite Bordeaux—the one he'd mentioned wanting to try for months—sat breathing beside his plate.

By seven o'clock, everything was perfect. I changed into the midnight blue dress he'd once said brought out my eyes, applied makeup to hide the shadows of sleepless nights, and waited.

Seven-thirty came and went. Then eight. Nine.

I sent a text that went unanswered. Called his office. No response.

By ten, the candles had burned halfway down, their wax dripping onto the expensive tablecloth like tears. The food had long since grown cold. I sat alone, watching the door, listening for the elevator, feeling something inside me harden with each passing minute.

At eleven-fifteen, I heard the distinctive chime of the elevator. My heart leapt traitorously even as my mind prepared for disappointment. I stood, smoothing my dress, fixing a smile that felt like a grimace.

"Nathan," I said as he strode in, his attention fixed on his phone. "Happy anniversary."

He looked up, his expression shifting from distraction to unmistakable irritation as he took in the scene—the candles, the flowers, the elaborate dinner cooling on china plates.

"What's all this?" he asked, his voice carrying the edge I'd grown to dread.

"It's our anniversary," I repeated, hating the tremor in my voice. "I thought we could celebrate."

He sighed heavily, running a hand through his dark hair. "Sarah, I've had a hellish day. The Parker account is falling apart, and I've got calls to return."

"It would only take an hour," I said, hearing the plea in my voice and despising it. "The food's already cold anyway, but we could still—"

"Not tonight," he cut me off, already moving past the table, past me, as if neither of us existed. "I need to work."

I stood frozen as he brushed by, not even bothering to look at the meal I'd spent hours preparing. The candles guttered in the draft from his passing, their flames dancing wildly before steadying again.

Something inside me finally broke—not with a dramatic crash, but with the quiet finality of ice cracking beneath too much weight.

I followed him to his office, my movements mechanical. From my purse, I withdrew the envelope I'd been carrying for weeks, waiting for the courage—or the despair—to present it.

Nathan was already at his desk, laptop open, when I entered. He didn't look up.

"I need you to sign these," I said, my voice surprisingly steady as I slid the papers across his polished desk.

He glanced at them, irritation flashing across his face. "What is this now?"

"Divorce papers," I answered simply. "I've signed over everything—the penthouse, my trust fund, even Mitchell Enterprises. It's all yours."

That got his attention. His eyes snapped to mine, seeing me—truly seeing me—for perhaps the first time in months.

"I'm ending our marriage, Nathan," I continued, feeling strangely calm. "And my life."

The words hung between us in the silence of the office, as final as a closing door.