On the night of the Fourth of July, while fireworks lit up the sky, Margaux Haywood sent her ex-boyfriend's father ten cases of Romanée-Conti and another ten of top-shelf bourbon.
A client sent over two boxes of assorted pastries and a fruit basket. Without a note, it read like leftovers presented for the sake of formality.
That wasn't anything new.
It reminded me of our wedding day.
Back then, Margaux only agreed to let me marry into her family under one condition that we skipped the rings. There was no proposal, ceremony, or vows, and just a signature on a piece of paper.
But for her ex, Archie Branson?
Margaux went all out. She set up a line of deluxe villas and acquired a custom engagement ring pair at the Queen's Auction.
The rings remain stored in a secure, private vault.
I don't even know the password, and I'm not allowed near it.
I stared at the rough, cheap packaging of the so-called "gifts" I brought, and a cold laugh slipped out before I could stop it.
"Margaux," I said, voice even, "let's get a divorce."
She didn't even react, and her expression didn't change.
Instead, she chuckled, like I'd said something mildly amusing.
"All this fuss over a couple of bottles of wine?" she said, like I was the one being ridiculous. Don't you think you're overreacting, Troy?"
Then, to justify everything, she added, "Archie's not around right now. What's wrong with me showing some respect to his father on his behalf?"
As if that made it okay.
Before I could answer, she grabbed two cases of Romanée-Conti and shoved them into my arms like she tossed me a bone.
"There. Happy now?" Margaux asked. "So, still divorcing?"
I didn't hesitate. I looked her right in the eye.
"Yeah," I said. "Still divorcing."
——
She gave a short, humorless laugh. "Fine. Then go home and talk it over with your older brother, Gerard. If you can get his approval, we'll talk."
Afterward, Margaux gestured to her bodyguards and walked away without a word, her heels tapping on the marble as they carried off the remaining wine.
She didn't even look back.
I stared at the two cases of wine in my hands.
Then, they turned around and dumped them straight into the trash.
Without a second thought, I pulled out my phone and called the one man who could make this official.
"Atty. Irving," I said, "draft a divorce agreement. I'll walk away with nothing."
There was a long pause on the other end.
"Sir, are you sure?" he asked carefully. "You really want to walk away with nothing? Has Sir Gerard approved this? Maybe you should at least negotiate for your own rights."
At his words, a bitter smile tugged at my lips.
With that, I couldn't help but think, 'Rights? Did I ever really have any?'
When I was dragged back into the Johnson family, my father and brother treated me like a spare part—a tool—something useful, not someone valuable.
And Margaux?
She made her position clear the night before our wedding.
I earned eight grand a month. That was supposed to cover all the household expenses.
Her company's dividends? They were labeled as premarital assets. Completely off-limits.
The villa, Starlight Heights, where we lived?
Before I ever set foot inside, she'd already had it notarized under her name.
To prove I wasn't in it for her money, I signed everything she wanted—every document and every condition.
But when I saw what she prepared as a bride price for her ex?
That's when the delusion shattered.
That's when I finally realized I wasn't her husband.
I was just a stand-in—a seat filler.
A puppet she used to make her ex jealous, to lash out at the one who left her.
And it's been six years.
Six long years of humiliation and silence.
And suddenly, I just couldn't do it anymore. I opened a blank document and started drafting the divorce agreement myself.
As I typed, a news notification popped up.
Breaking News: [Metropolis's richest woman was spotted at the airport with a mystery man suspected of being her new flame.]
I tapped it open, and there she was.
Margaux Haywood.
Smiling. Bright and wide. The kind of smile I hadn't seen in years.
And standing next to her was a man I knew all too well.
Archie Branson.
They stood right next to each other, as if they hadn't split up. Her arm linked through his, and both wore matching golden rose pins, embroidered in gold thread. The kind of thing you can't buy unless someone wants you to be seen.
My chest tightened like a fist wrapped around my lungs. My throat dried up. My whole body went cold.
Then the trunk of their car popped open.
Row after row, luxury gifts were loaded in.
Romanée-Conti. George T. Stagg. Dozens of boxes.
I wasn't allowed to give the same ones to anyone.
Later that day, Archie posted on his Moments.
They stood in front of the car, arms around each other. Her hand was resting on his shoulder. Fingers bare. No ring.
Caption:
[After everything, you were always the one.]
Margaux liked the post and then commented:
[And I will always be your way home.]
But they weren't done.
Archie posted ten more updates before the day was over.
They visited the Branson family's ancestral home. Margaux sat at the head of the table like she belonged there. Like she'd always been the Branson family's daughter-in-law.
Archie sat beside her, doting and affectionate.
They toasted the elders.
She followed him to the family shrine, knelt, and bowed her head to the floor.
Later, they went boating on Westlake.
The sun lit up her face, soft and golden. And her smile—God, that smile was something else.
She never smiled like that with me.
Whenever we went out, her eyes were glued to her laptop. Her face was always blank, distant.
I used to tell her stories—silly things I saw on the street, hoping to make her laugh, but Margaux never looked up or showed any interest.
She would only frown at me and call me childish.
