On our wedding night, my wife demanded that I wear a blindfold. She said her body was meant only for her true love.

The words hit me like a bucket of ice water, and I snapped, "Are you my wife or his?"

She shot back even louder, defiance blazing in her eyes. "I married you. Does that mean I have to show you my body? Coercion is still coercion, even in marriage. My body is only for Matt to see because you simply don't deserve it."

Later, she said she wanted to truly be my wife. I found myself thinking she wasn't worthy anymore.

"Do you take it or not?"

Melissa Olson stood before me, bundled in layers of clothes, as if preparing for some noble sacrifice. She held out the black blindfold again, her expression stern, her posture almost defiant.

I gave a bitter smile, my embarrassment cutting deeper than ever before. For a moment, I didn't move.

She, however, had no patience left. "Hurry up and put it on," she snapped, stepping forward as if she intended to force the thing onto my head herself.

I stared at the woman in front of me. She was wearing a high-necked top that covered every inch of her skin, even her neck, leaving no trace of bare flesh visible. The sight filled me with a suffocating sense of humiliation.

Anger surged within me. "Are you my wife, or his?" I demanded, shoving the blindfold away with a sharp motion.

My chest felt heavy, my breath uneven. I'd always known she had harbored feelings for another man for years. But I had never imagined she would humiliate me like this on our wedding night.

Her actions made her intent painfully clear: she wanted me to understand that her body and soul belonged entirely to another man. Even though she had married me, I didn't deserve her.

She underestimated me.

"I should've been his wife!" she shot back, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

I froze, stunned by the venom in her tone.

Seeing my shock, she smirked and became even prouder of herself. "My body belongs to Matt. Every inch of it. Every touch, every glance. From my body to my heart, I'm entirely his!"

She finished her tirade, pulled on her clothes, and stormed out, slamming the door behind her.

I sat there, gutted, as the sound of her footsteps echoed away. I couldn't believe she had chosen to hurt me this way. Years of childhood memories, of growing up together, all discarded in favor of a man who had probably whispered a few sweet nothings into her ear.

But I wasn't a fool. I hadn't insisted on marrying her.

The proposal for our union had come from her father, who approached me in desperation. Their family business was struggling, teetering on the edge of collapse, and they needed a lifeline.

Melissa had lived a carefree life, shielded from these troubles, oblivious to the company's decline. Her father, unwilling to burden her with the weight of reality, kept everything hidden from her. Instead, he turned to me, pleading for a union between our families, knowing I had always harbored feelings for her.

He believed that if we married, I would take care of her for the rest of her life. He wasn't wrong. I had loved her for years, so when he asked, I agreed.

Even when my own parents disowned me for making this decision, declaring they would no longer acknowledge me, I stood firm.

I had spent years building connections and gathering resources within the company I managed. I knew I could use those assets to help her family. Her parents understood this too. But Melissa—she never saw it that way.

She resented my estrangement from my family and held me in contempt. To her, I wasn't even worth comparing to Matt, her so-called boyfriend, who was nothing more than a low-level manager.

The roar of her red sports car shattered the silence as it sped out of the villa. I closed my eyes tightly, trying to steel myself against the sinking realization. She couldn't wait to see Matt, could she?

For the first time, I felt the weight of inevitability.

It was time for Melissa and me to part ways—once and for all.

By the time I had washed up and was ready to sleep, a message popped up on my phone.

It was from Matt.

Matt: [Mel is in my care now. Tonight, she's my bride.]

Attached to the taunting words was a photo.

In the photo, a tall, lean man had one hand tangled in Melissa's hair, pressing her against a bathroom sink, while the other hand held his phone up to snap a picture in the mirror.

The angle of the shot left little to the imagination—it didn't show anything explicit, but the context was unmistakable. Melissa's face was visible, her expression was one of euphoric abandon, and her eyes were hazy with lust.

For a moment, it felt like a bee had stung my chest. I pressed my hand against my heart and let out a soft, bitter laugh. I had no business hoping for anything from her anymore.

Matt was nothing more than an opportunist, a man looking to climb the social ladder by latching onto her. If that was the life she wanted, so be it.

I ignored his message, continued drying my hair, and prepared for bed. But apparently, my indifference didn't sit well with him.

When I opened Instagram, I saw that he had added a new post—a public declaration meant for all to see.

[A woman’s heart belongs to the one she’s with. Even if she is forced into a marriage for family reasons, her heart will always find its way back to where it truly belongs.

On her wedding night, my lover still found her way to me, without hesitation. Her body will never belong to another man, not even for a second.

She's mine. Now and always. #UnbreakableBond #HeartAndSoul #Destiny]

He included a gallery of nine photos.

There was a picture of Melissa resting her blissful face on his chest. Another showed their fingers intertwined against snowy white sheets. One was a close-up of her collarbone, marked with unmistakable evidence of their intimacy.

I won't lie—it hurt. But the pain only hardened my resolve.

I took a screenshot of his Instagram post and posted it on my own with a caption: [On our wedding night, my wife confessed her heart belongs to someone else. We've decided to part ways amicably.]

I powered off my phone and went to sleep.

I had braced myself for a restless night, but surprisingly, I slept dreamlessly until morning.

The moment I turned my phone back on, the house line rang.

I prepared myself for a tirade, expecting my father's scathing disapproval. But when I answered, there was nothing but silence for five long seconds, as though he was gathering himself.

Finally, his voice came through, calm but heavy. "You've hit a wall, I see. Make sure you take care of yourself moving forward."

Not a word of reproach.

The unexpected kindness hit me hard. My nose stung, and my eyes grew warm.

"Mm," I croaked, nodding as though he could see me. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I whispered, "I'm sorry for embarrassing you and Mom. It won't happen again."

How childish I'd been. Offering up my dignity to someone who didn't deserve it wasn't enough—I'd dragged my parents into the mud with me.

My father let out a long sigh. "As long as you're okay." And with that, he hung up.

They had warned me, over and over, that forcing something that wasn't meant to be would only bring bitterness.

But I had believed that Melissa's infatuation with her so-called soulmate was fleeting, that she'd eventually come to see reason and choose a proper partner. I had convinced myself that I was the right choice.

When her father approached me with the marriage proposal, I had taken it as proof that fate had been on my side all along. I thought I was the one who could make her happy.

I had been a fool, not just to myself but to my parents. Marriage wasn't just a union of two hearts—it was a binding of two families. And I had failed them.

After the call, I glanced at my phone. Hundreds of unread messages and missed calls flooded the screen.

Melissa's parents and Melissa herself had called repeatedly, as had friends, relatives, and even business associates, all eager for an explanation.

When she couldn't reach me by phone, Melissa had resorted to sending me messages.

Melissa: [Why did you post about me on your Instagram? Did you think it would somehow force me to have a change of heart?]

Melissa: [How low can you go? I'll tell you once and for all: I don't want you. I've never wanted you. Matt's the only one I love!]

Melissa: [Let's see who ends up more humiliated—me or you, Mr. Proud Husband. Maybe wearing a green hat suits you!"

She didn't stop there. Perhaps thinking my silence was defeat, she followed her usual routine and took her grievances public. Her latest post on social media mirrored Matt's antics, right down to the same self-righteous indignation:

[A marriage without love is nothing but a cage. I may have been forced into it, but my body will forever belong to my true love.]

Our mutual friends, apparently unable to stomach her brazenness, began flooding the comments with scathing rebukes.

But Melissa was undeterred. She clapped back at every critic with equal parts pettiness and venom.

I didn't bother engaging. I'd already said my piece when I posted that announcement. It wasn't a cry for sympathy but a severance—clean and final. She could rant and rave to the heavens; my conscience was clear.

She was no longer the little girl who used to follow me around, pouting and seeking my attention. It was time I let go of this lingering attachment.

I did one thing before shutting my phone for the morning: I gave her post a like.

It was a quiet acknowledgment, a signal that I was done looking back. Then I busied myself with the mundane rituals of preparing for work.

*

Melissa and I had grown up side by side as neighbors. In our little cul-de-sac of grand houses and sprawling lawns, the neighborhood kids often banded together, but Melissa was special to me. She had always stood out to me. I became her self-appointed guardian.

I tutored her through tricky math problems, chauffeured her to and from school, braided her hair, and even rationed her candy when she overindulged. Somewhere along the way, those habits hardened into something I couldn't shake.

The adults joked about it often enough. "Raising yourself a little wife, are you?" they'd say. Melissa, never one to miss a beat, would grin and declare, "When I grow up, I'm going to marry Shawn!"

Well, she grew up. She met Matt. And she forgot every word of it.

The memory stung, but not enough to linger. It was long past time to let go. I gathered myself, squared my shoulders, and prepared to face the day.

That's when my phone rang.

The caller was her father, his voice barely steady amidst the chaos in the background. I could hear furniture crashing, her mother's high-pitched sobs, and Melissa's unmistakable screams cutting through the din.

"Shawn," her father pleaded, desperation cracking through his usual calm. "Please, come to our place. We need you."

Before I could ask for details, Melissa's shrill voice surged through the receiver. "If you don't agree to the divorce, I'll die right here in front of you all!"

I sighed. "Alright," I said simply and hung up.

I grabbed the divorce papers and headed out. Whatever melodrama awaited, I was sure this was the answer she wanted.

The Olson residence was a battlefield of broken furniture and frayed tempers.

Melissa stood in the center, her hair disheveled, one hand clutching a fruit knife pressed against her wrist. A thin trickle of blood traced a line down her arm. I could see the manic fury in her eyes.

Her father looked like he'd aged a decade overnight, his graying hair more prominent and his expression etched with defeat. Her mother, meanwhile, was inconsolable, alternating between tearful pleas and frantic attempts to grab the knife from Melissa's hand.

It was clear what had happened. Her father, ever the traditionalist, had dragged her here to make amends and salvage the marriage. Even now, he still believed I could forgive and forget, that Melissa and I could somehow move past this chaos.

Melissa had other ideas. Her tantrum escalated until the knife came into play. Her parents were out of their depth, and I was their last hope.

For a moment, I couldn't help but find the whole scene darkly amusing. If she was this resistant to the marriage, why hadn't she protested before we tied the knot? No one had forced her to walk down the aisle. It was her choice—or so I thought.

I voiced the question aloud. "If you didn't want this, why didn't you speak up before? Marriage is a choice, Mel. You could have said no."

Her response was chilling in its clarity. "Because you wouldn't have let me refuse! Isn't this what you wanted all along? Aren't you thrilled now? I'll tell you why I went through with it: to show Matt just how far I was willing to go for him. Even in this sham of a marriage, I belong only to him. For his sake, I'll do anything."