The Seven-Day Agreement

On our seventh wedding anniversary, my wife handed me a divorce agreement that was valid for seven days.

She had fallen for a male intern at her company who was seven years younger than her. She wanted to experience what she called a proper romance with him, one that would last exactly seven days.

On the first day, they booked an entire private cinema and made love to each other from the entrance to their seats.

On the second day, they went to the seaside to set off fireworks, and the light spread across half the skyline of Veyron.

On the fifth day, the intern burst into an art exhibition I hosted and cried in front of the entire press. He accused me of coming between them.

That same evening, the story of a rising painter becoming a homewrecker for love reached the top of the trending searches, and the hate comments poured in.

On the sixth day, my wife apologized to me on the intern’s behalf, and his punishment was a three‑day ban from shopping.

On the seventh day, my wife finally sensed something was wrong. She called me ninety‑nine times and reminded me that we were supposed to reconcile the next day.

I replied with a single “okay” and quietly told my assistant to arrange for my luggage to be shipped out.

What she did not know was that seven days earlier, I had already made plans to go abroad to continue my studies.

This time, I was done playing her game.

Vera Lloyd held the divorce agreement when she found me. I hid in my home studio and worked on the final details of a surprise I had prepared for our seventh anniversary.

It was a 220 by 140 oil painting that had taken me an entire month to complete. I was two brushstrokes away from finishing it.

“I left the divorce agreement on the table. If everything looks fine, go ahead and sign it. Austin is waiting for me outside.”

My hand froze around the paintbrush. I was sure I had misheard her.

“What?”

Vera frowned. “I want a divorce. Do not worry, it is only for seven days. After that, you will still be my one and only husband.”

The absurdity of it hit me all at once. I opened my mouth to speak, and Vera cut me off.

“You promised me on our wedding day that you would give me one chance to make a mistake. You are not going back on that now, are you?”

I had said that. I had also made it clear that it did not include affairs or falling for someone else.

The pain felt almost unbearable, and I forced myself to stay steady.

“Does it have to be today?”

Rain poured outside, and it was our wedding anniversary.

Eight years earlier, on a day just like this one, Vera had walked into my life under a deep navy umbrella. I still remembered the smell of rain on the pavement, and I remembered her umbrella too, how the sixth rib had a faint patch of rust along the middle.

Vera clicked her tongue and shut the window with an irritated snap.

“Sean, was I not clear enough? I am not actually trying to divorce you. I am doing this to keep a young guy happy. Once his birthday passes next week, I will remarry you right away.”

A knock sounded at the door, and a young man in a white shirt peeked inside. “Vera, are you almost ready? Our movie is about to start.”

He pouted, and even that looked boyishly charming on him.

“Alright, alright, give me a second, you little prince.” Vera ruffled his hair with easy affection, then turned back to me. The warmth left her face at once.

“You see this, Sean? I have somewhere to be. Sign the papers.”

I dipped my brush into the paint and spoke quietly. “Does it have to be today?”

Vera paused, then let out a short laugh. “Obviously. Since when do you need a special day for a divorce?”

I did not argue this time. I picked up a pen and signed.

The moment Vera walked out the door, I placed the final brushstroke on the canvas.

“Vera,” I called after her.

“Do you know what today is? It is our seventh wedding anniversary.”

Vera stopped, and her voice sounded flat and calm.

“I know. Austin kept pushing, and I did not want to make him sad.”

The door shut behind her with a sharp click, and their voices drifted back through the wall.

One of them said, “Stupid rainy day. It got my sneakers all dirty.”