At the company's tenth-anniversary banquet, my husband's childhood sweetheart made an unexpected entrance. Without hesitation, she walked straight up to him, throwing her arms around him and handing him a bouquet of bright red roses.

To my disbelief, my husband didn't pull away—he hugged her back, tightly, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. The crowd erupted in cheers, calling for them to kiss, as if I was the outsider and they were the true couple.

My chest tightened; the pain unbearable. Without looking back, I turned and left the room. Goodbye, Zane. You didn't deserve my love.

——

Once again, Zane came home reeking of alcohol, the heavy scent filling the air as soon as the door creaked open. He staggered in like he owned the place, his posture demanding attention. "Bring me my slippers!" he barked, his voice laced with the entitlement of a king addressing a servant.

I sat quietly on the sofa, a half-full glass of champagne in hand, my gaze distant. The sound of him fumbling with his shoes reached my ears, followed by an annoyed huff. When I didn't move, he glared at me from across the room, his brow furrowing.

"You're just going to sit there?" Zane snapped, his voice cutting through the silence. "And you're drinking? At this hour?"

I glanced at him, my expression cool, the glass lightly tapping against my lips before I spoke. "You've got hands, don't you? Or did you suddenly forget how to use them?"

Zane's face hardened, a hint of confusion flashing in his eyes. "What's gotten into you today? Did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed?"

He stood there, looking genuinely perplexed, as though he had no idea what I was upset about. As if just a few hours ago, he hadn't blatantly disrespected me in front of everyone at the company banquet. He had wrapped his arms around Maeve, his childhood sweetheart, as if she was his wife, not me. The crowd had cheered like it was all part of some romantic comedy, leaving me standing there, a silent bystander. CEO or not, did that give him the right to treat me like I was invisible?

Ignoring him, I kept my focus on the bubbles rising in my champagne glass, their slow ascent oddly calming. Zane, undeterred by my coldness, placed a small, elegant jewelry box beside me. "Here," he said, his voice softening. "I got you something. Open it."

I set down my glass, opening the box with deliberate slowness. Inside lay a bold, gold necklace in the shape of a leopard—wild, aggressive and completely not my style. I glanced at it, unimpressed and closed the lid with a snap, pushing the box aside.

Zane shrugged out of his jacket, tossing it over the back of a chair. "What, you don't like it?" he asked, his tone casual, as if he'd brought me a bouquet of daisies and not a gaudy piece of jewelry worth thousands.

I met his gaze, my voice steady. "You know I don't like flashy designs like that. And it looks like a snake. I hate snakes."

Zane raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "A snake? It's a leopard. How can you confuse the two?"

I rolled my eyes, pushing the box toward him. "This wasn't even your choice, was it? Maeve picked it out, didn't she?"

Maeve Davenport was my husband's secretary and also his childhood sweetheart. The same woman who gave him a bouquet of bright red roses at the company's banquet.

His smirk faded and he averted his gaze, pretending to yawn. "She helped," he admitted, shrugging. "You know I don't understand these things."

Anger flared in my chest, but I kept my voice controlled. "You wash up and change on your own. I'm going to bed."

Zane's temper snapped, his voice rising. "Amy, seriously? You're giving me attitude over this?"

Without a word, I stood and walked to the bedroom, slamming the door behind me and locking it. Through the door, I could hear him muttering angrily. "Crazy woman!"

I collapsed onto the bed, my mind spinning. How had it come to this? Zane and I hadn't always been like this. Our relationship had started with a whirlwind of drama, but there had been moments of sweetness, moments when I thought I meant something to him.

I remembered the day we first crossed paths, when he was the golden boy of our university and I was just the girl helping her mom sell cotton candy after classes. It was a typical Friday and I watched from behind our little stall as Zane emerged from the campus gates, surrounded by a gaggle of adoring girls. He was handsome, rich and completely out of my league. Yet, despite the attention, he never seemed interested in any of the girls who fawned over him.

That day, one of them, a pretty girl with perfect curls, pointed at our stall and grinned. "Zane, I want the most expensive cotton candy. Buy it for me!"

Another girl chimed in; her voice playful. "Yeah, you can't just buy for her. We all want one!"

Zane chuckled awkwardly, clearly uncomfortable, but he approached our stall anyway. He bought five cotton candies—the most expensive ones, of course—and handed them to the girls. But when I went to give him his change, I realized I didn't have enough small bills.

Before I could say anything, Zane smiled and waved it off. "Don't worry about it. I'll get it from you next time."

Maybe it was the way he said it, the unexpected friendliness in his voice. The girls around him noticed too. Their playful giggles turned into jealous glares.

One of them, a snobbish girl named Jennifer, stormed over and kicked over our stall, yelling, "Stay away from him, you man-stealing fox!"

Without thinking, I leapt at her. We ended up in a brawl right there on the street, with cotton candy flying everywhere. Later, her parents demanded we pay thousands in compensation, money my family didn't have. We were on the verge of losing everything when Zane showed up, offering to pay the full amount.

"I can't let this fall on you," he had said, his voice steady. "This whole mess started because of me."

From that day forward, we were inseparable. Or so I thought. Now, as I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, I couldn't help but wonder—was that the moment I fell into a trap?

After graduation, Zane seamlessly took over the family business, inheriting a legacy of wealth and power. As for me, after marrying him, I was appointed as a receptionist at his company.

Despite my professional skills and qualifications, I was relegated to this entry-level position. Zane insisted it was necessary for me to "start from the bottom" to gain experience, citing concerns about gossip from employees and shareholders about favoritism.

At the time, I swallowed his explanation, believing that my dedication and hard work would eventually lead to a better role. So, for the sake of our relationship and his wishes, I agreed.

The initial excitement of working at the company soon wore off as I found myself stuck in the receptionist role for three long years. My skills, which could have easily qualified me for a more substantial position, seemed to be overlooked.

Every time I raised the issue of a transfer, Zane came up with new excuses. He claimed that business roles were exhausting and that we might soon start a family. He didn't want me burdened by work and preferred that I enjoy a comfortable life at home.

But the more I considered it, the more I realized it was all a facade. Zane was always careful to use condoms during our intimate moments and insisted he wasn't ready for children. It dawned on me that his promises were nothing but a smokescreen, part of a broader plan to keep me sidelined.

His true intentions became glaringly apparent when he consistently avoided acknowledging me as his wife in any public or professional setting. Meanwhile, Maeve—his childhood sweetheart who had returned from studying abroad—was swiftly promoted to his secretary. She was paraded around at every event, her presence often accompanied by affectionate gestures that made it clear to everyone at the company that she was the one truly cherished.

The night of the company's tenth-anniversary banquet was particularly telling. I hadn't been included in the guest list, a snub that reflected my status as a mere receptionist. It was only when Zane's mother called me in a panic, unable to reach Zane, that I went to the company to find him.

As I stepped into the venue, I was met with a scene that shattered me. Maeve stood before Zane, presenting him with a bouquet of red roses. They embraced warmly and the crowd, oblivious to the reality, cheered them on, chanting for a kiss. There I was, the legitimate wife, awkwardly standing at the entrance, feeling the sting of exclusion and betrayal. Despite being with him for eight years, my presence seemed inconsequential.

After a sleepless, tormented night, I found myself struggling to fall asleep the next morning. Just as I was finally drifting off, Zane's insistent knocking on the door yanked me back to reality. "Amy, where did you put my navy-blue tie?"

Frustration boiled over as I hurled a pillow at the door. "Where else could it be? It's in the rice cooker!"

Over the past eight years of our relationship and four years of marriage, I had meticulously managed every aspect of his daily life. Our home was a testament to my organizational skills, with his wardrobe arranged neatly and every piece of clothing in its rightful place. Yet, despite this, he continually relied on me to find his belongings—sometimes even his socks.

I used to think that without me, he would be utterly lost. But it became increasingly clear that he was merely accustomed to my constant support. In front of Maeve, Zane was considerate and attentive, even knowing the specific type of lingerie she preferred. It was a stark contrast to the way he treated me. Over the years, it became painfully obvious that in his eyes, I was nothing more than a glorified housekeeper.

I slipped into a nightgown, the soft fabric brushing against my skin as I walked out of the bedroom. Zane had already found his navy-blue tie and the sight of him holding it with an air of triumph made my blood boil. I couldn't help but sneer, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "I thought you were blind and disabled; apparently, you can find it just fine."

His face hardened instantly, his eyes flashing with anger. The warmth of the morning was quickly replaced by a chill as he glared at me. "Amy, what's your problem? You used to help me find things without complaint."

I crossed my arms, refusing to back down. "True, but from now on, I don't want to do it. You can have your secretary help you," I shot back, my voice steady but icy.

Zane's expression wavered, his face darkening as he processed my words. "I knew you were acting up. Is this another jealousy fit over Maeve? I've told you a thousand times, I only see her as a sister!"

I took a step closer, my eyes narrowing as I glared at him, standing on tiptoe to meet his gaze. "A sister? So last night, a ‘sister' gives her ‘brother' red roses—a symbol of romantic affection—and hugs him like that? And then the entire company cheers for them to kiss?"

My voice rose with frustration, the hurt and betrayal clear in every syllable. "Zane, I'm not an idiot. Aren't you ashamed of yourself?"

Zane's bravado faltered, his shoulders slumping slightly. He turned away from me, mumbling defensively, "Oh, so it's about this. It was all for show; the atmosphere was what it was. I didn't want to ruin everyone's fun. You wouldn't understand the need to play along. Besides, I only kissed her on the cheek, not on the lips…"

My anger surged, my heart pounding in my chest. "Oh, so if the crowd had urged you to go to bed with her, you would have gone along with that too, wouldn't you?" I challenged, my voice sharp with accusation.

Zane's face grew tense, his anger boiling over. He threw up his hands dismissively. "You're impossible to reason with sometimes! I have nothing more to say to you!"

With that, he snatched his coat from the hook, his movements brusque and filled with irritation. He stormed toward the door, his footsteps heavy and deliberate. I watched him, a mix of sadness and resolve in my eyes.

As he reached the door, I called out calmly, though my voice trembled slightly. "Zane, let's get a divorce."

I saw his back stiffen, his body language betraying the shock of my words. He paused for a moment, but then, with a final slam of the door, he stormed out of the house, leaving me alone in the cold silence that followed.

The echo of the door's slam hung in the air. I stood there, the weight of the confrontation settling heavily on my shoulders. The realization of what I had said and the finality of it left me feeling both liberated and hollow.