After My Husband's Fake Marriage With His Secretary, I Left Him

On our fifth wedding anniversary, my husband told me he wanted to have a fake wedding with his secretary.

But after overhearing his conversation with a friend, I realized everything was a carefully crafted lie.

"Yves, haven't you had enough sneaking around with Shontelle for the past five years? And now you want to actually marry her?"

Yves downed a glass of red wine in one gulp, his cheeks slightly flushed, and a reckless smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

"It's only a fake wedding, but my feelings for her are real. Besides, Shontelle's mother has a terminal illness. Her only wish is to see her daughter get married, and I intend to make that happen."

I stood frozen outside the door, holding my breath. But his next words shattered me completely.

"As for Marichelle... I have to maintain that marriage. Do you know how much property I'd lose in a divorce? Besides, she can keep earning money to support me and Shontelle's child."

His friend chuckled knowingly, patting his shoulder in approval.

"Everyone knows Marichelle is madly in love with you. She nearly severed ties with her family just to marry you. Even if you divorce her, I'm sure she'll cling to you desperately."

The room went silent for a beat, then erupted in mocking laughter—as if already picturing me pathetically begging him not to leave.

Through the crack of the door, I caught a glimpse of Yves' smug, self-satisfied smile.

I didn’t bother listening anymore. There was no point.

Clenching my fist, I dialed my Dad.

"Dad, I want a divorce. You were right—Allen is the one truly suited for me."

On the other end came a long, relieved sigh.

"My good daughter, you finally understand. I'll come pick you up in a week."

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I whispered mentally, 'Yves, to me now, you are nothing more than a pitiful, pathetic man.'

When Yves stumbled home at one in the morning, he was already calling out my name.

"Mari! Marichelle..."

From the entryway to the living room, his voice sounded anxious—because unlike always, I wasn't waiting on the sofa for him no matter how late it was.

I was already asleep, unwilling to waste another shred of emotion on a man who would soon be my ex-husband.

"You're sleeping? Without waiting for me?" He sounded incredulous when he saw me in bed.

And when I didn't respond, he stormed over and yanked me upright.

"Marichelle! How could you go to bed without me? You've never done that before!" He shook my shoulders until the last trace of drowsiness was gone.

So he had noticed that I always stayed up late for him. Yet not once did he ever tell me to rest early, never once cared about my exhaustion. Now, just because I broke the routine once, he dared to shake me awake and demand an explanation.

How had I been so blind to his cold, selfish heart?

"Are you done?" I looked at him blankly.

"What?" He frowned.

"If you're done, I'd like to go back to sleep. The doctor says I'm a light sleeper. Starting today, we'll sleep in separate rooms."

Without waiting for his reaction, I lay back down, ignoring the ugly expression on his face.

Perhaps it was my mention of separate rooms, or maybe it was the realization that I was no longer soft, patient, and endlessly forgiving—either way, Yves grew restless.

"Mari, are you angry with me? I know I came home late, but you know I had to work overtime. It's normal to finish around one or two. You're my wife—you should understand how hard I work!"

I let out a cold laugh under the covers.

"Marichelle?"

"I do understand. That's why I'm asking you to leave." I turned away from him, my back a clear rejection.

He finally gave up trying to talk to me, muttering one last line before leaving the room.

"You must be tired and not thinking straight. I hope tomorrow you'll be back to normal."