I Faked My Death to Escape Being His Wife

I smoothed the fabric of my white cocktail dress, a simple piece I'd chosen with care for tonight. Ten years of marriage. A decade that should have been marked by growth, by love, by the building of a life together. Instead, I stood alone in the elevator ascending to Le Ciel, one of Manhattan's most exclusive restaurants, my reflection in the mirrored walls revealing a woman I barely recognized anymore.

Christian had arranged this dinner—a perfunctory gesture, I knew, but one that had kindled that dangerous thing called hope within me. Perhaps tonight would be different. Perhaps after ten years, he might finally see me.

"Mrs. Sinclair, welcome." The maître d' greeted me with practiced deference. "Mr. Sinclair is already waiting in the private dining room."

I nodded, following him through the main dining area where New York's elite dined under crystal chandeliers. Eyes followed me—some curious, some pitying, some gleefully malicious. I kept my chin lifted, my steps measured. I'd become an expert at pretending I didn't notice.

Christian sat at a table beside floor-to-ceiling windows that showcased Manhattan's glittering skyline. He didn't stand when I entered, merely glanced up from his phone with those ice-blue eyes that never seemed to warm when they looked at me.

"You're late," he said, slipping his phone into his jacket pocket.

I wasn't. I was precisely on time, but I'd learned long ago that correcting Christian only led to frost forming more thickly between us.

"I'm sorry," I said, taking my seat as the waiter pulled out my chair. "Traffic was heavier than expected."

He nodded absently, already signaling for wine. The conversation that followed was painfully stilted—his latest business acquisition, an upcoming board meeting, the weather. Never us. Never the milestone we were supposedly celebrating.

Midway through our entrées, Christian's phone buzzed. Something shifted in his expression as he read the message—a softening I'd spent ten years hoping to inspire.

"Lauren's at The Summit," he said, referring to the exclusive rooftop bar just three floors above us. "She's had too much to drink. I need to check on her."

My fork paused halfway to my mouth. "Christian, it's our anniversary dinner."

"It's just dinner, Natalie." His voice held that edge of impatience I knew too well. "We've had thousands. Lauren needs help."

"Can't someone else—"

"I'll handle the bill on my way out," he interrupted, already standing. He didn't even look at me as he buttoned his jacket. "Don't wait up."

And just like that, he was gone. No apology. No backward glance. Just the lingering scent of his cologne and the hollow echo of his footsteps.

I sat there, surrounded by half-eaten food and the pitying glances of the waitstaff, my hands trembling slightly as I reached for my water glass. This was nothing new. This was my life—being left behind for Lauren Parker, my childhood friend turned rival, the woman Christian couldn't seem to live without despite the ring on my finger.

Eventually, I settled the bill myself and made my way to the penthouse we shared but never truly inhabited together. The space was immaculate, designed by one of New York's most sought-after decorators, and utterly devoid of warmth. Like my marriage.

I kicked off my heels and curled up on the pristine white sofa, pulling out my phone. A masochistic part of me scrolled through social media, seeking distraction but finding torture instead.

There it was—posted just twenty minutes ago. A video of Christian at The Summit, his arm around Lauren's waist as she leaned into him, laughing up at him with that practiced vulnerability she'd perfected. Someone had tagged it #MyFirstLove. The comments beneath were worse.

"Poor Natalie, always the placeholder."

"When will she get the hint?"

"Ten years of being the most expensive doormat in Manhattan."

I stared at the screen until the words blurred, my chest constricting with a pain so familiar it had become almost a companion. In the vast emptiness of our penthouse, I allowed myself a single tear—just one—because I knew that once I started truly crying, I might never stop.

What hurt most wasn't the humiliation, though that burned like acid. It was the realization that after ten years of hoping for change, of making excuses, of trying to be worthy of love, nothing had changed. And perhaps nothing ever would.

My phone buzzed with a new notification. Another comment, from an anonymous account: "Happy Anniversary, Mrs. Sinclair. How does it feel to know you'll never be his first choice?"

I closed my eyes, wondering how much longer I could survive being Christian Sinclair's wife in name only.