Eight years married, and my wife? She asked for a divorce 99 times.

I thought it was just her usual drama—testing me.

Then I found out she'd been wiring half a million every year to some dude. Always with the same note: ILU.

When she hit me with divorce number 100, I finally signed. I pulled my money out of her little passion project and ghosted—moved my company overseas, wiped my tracks clean.

Now she's out there losing her mind, trying to find me.

For eight years, I quietly funneled cash into Donna Marina's wedding business, no questions asked. Two days left on our contract, and I'm white-knuckling it, wondering if I should keep the money flowing.

She's asked for a divorce ninety-nine times. Ninety-nine. And I was dumb enough to think it was because I worked too much, because I wasn't around.

Turns out? Nah. She's been wiring $500K a year—every year—to some guy named Alec Humbert. Slapped an "ILU" on every transfer.

Guess who Alec is? Fresh meat at my company. HR flagged him during his background check.

Felt like someone dropped a brick on my chest. I gave Donna $600K a year to do whatever. Never thought she'd hand most of it to another guy.

My assistant handed me a video. In it, some investigator grilled Alec about the mystery money sender. Alec flashed this awkward little grin.

"A female friend," he said.

The guy lit up, instantly nosy. "She into you? Gonna say yes? Marry her or what?"

Alec ducked it and went off on a humblebrag instead.

"I've been overseas the past few years. Every July and December, she'd fly in, stay a month. Always brought stuff—fancy watches, ties, cologne..."

Felt like my chest caved in. Couldn't breathe.

Every July and December, Donna jetted off "to clear her head." Wouldn't let me tag along, wouldn't answer my calls.

I chalked it up to stress and sucked it up, missing her like an idiot.

Now I know the truth—she was with him.

And that watch Alec had on in the video? Pretty sure it was mine. The one I thought I lost.

Funny thing—every time Donna traveled, something of mine vanished. A suit. A tie. A bottle of cologne.

I figured I was just love-sick and scatterbrained after she left.

I even wrote her letters every day, made her favorite chocolates, taught myself to cook—just to survive those empty months.

Turns out, I wasn't forgetful. She was playing Santa. With my stuff. For him.

Then Donna hit me with another message:

[Let's get a divorce. My wedding biz is blowing up. I'm too busy to waste time on this relationship.]

Divorce request number 100.

Day after our wedding, Donna had cried about how stressful work was. So I offered her $600K a year, no strings.

By day three, she slapped a divorce agreement on the table.

"Hector, your money's an insult. Might as well just sign this now. You can add your name whenever."

She signed it fast, like she was canceling a subscription.

I freaked. Begged. Apologized. Even slapped myself like a total mess.

While I was spiraling—literally clawing at my scalp—she smacked me a few times through her own tears... then smiled.

"Alright, I'll forgive you."

After that, I walked on eggshells. She said she wanted her own business, so I quietly pumped money into it.

Now she thinks she's made it—boss girl vibes or whatever—and suddenly I'm just some "low-class rich guy" to her.

Since January, she's been tossing around the D-word like confetti. Ninety-nine times in six months.

Staring at that latest divorce text, all I could think about was the $500K she sent him every year, those two months she ghosted, my missing stuff, and that divorce paper she signed eight years ago...

Yeah. Cold chill straight down my spine.

She was hiding way too much.

I was about to shut off my phone when a call came through—Donna.

Background noise was wild, like some drunk party game in a bar. Probably a butt dial.

"Donna and Alec, drink from the same glass!"

"Kiss!"

"Carry her like a princess! Lock them in the dark room—don't come out for an hour! Hope you two finally make your dream come true!"

Then some random girl chimed in, all snarky:

"Who's 1874? Some insurance guy? Ugh, hang up."

Click. End of call.

Pain punched me in the chest. She saved me as '1874'—just the last four digits of my number.

Meanwhile, my phone screen still flashed "Sweetheart."

God, what a joke.

I had work to finish, thought about staying late—but I couldn't focus. So I headed home.

Walked in, couldn't find my slippers. Ended up dragging my dress shoes to the couch.

Then I looked around.

Everything I owned? Gone.

I was still standing there, confused, when Donna walked out of the bedroom and froze.

Last week, she'd hit me with:

"Being with a jobless guy like you is exhausting. I need a husband who actually supports my career. And you? You party all day, then come home to fold laundry and play chef. Can't you just get a REAL job and try for once?"

When I told her I was the CEO of Leandro Corp, she laughed.

"Please. Not even in your dreams. You're lazy. One day you'll blow through your money, and in a few years, you'll be living off ME."

She'd seen me in VIP rooms too many times—probably thought I was just some lucky loser who hit the jackpot once and was riding the wave till it crashed.

And the $600K a year?

"You gave it willingly," she said. "Starting this year, keep it. If you're gonna hold it over my head forever, I'd rather just give it back."

Then she straight-up kicked me out.

"Go stay somewhere else for a week. I need some peace."

A week later, I came home.

Yeah, she clearly didn't expect me back tonight.

Just as I was about to head for the shower, some guy walked out of the bathroom—wearing my bathrobe.

Alec. Of course. The guy she'd been wiring money to for eight years.

Donna rushed over and shoved me aside.

"He's just household staff," she told Alec, all casual. "He's gotten a little too comfortable—ignore him."

Then she yanked me to the couch and forced me to sit.

I had words. They just got stuck.

She brought another man home and downgraded me to the help.

I opened my mouth, but she slid in next to me, all desperate eyes and hushed whispers.

"He's a client. If I land him, it's a huge contract. Running a business as a woman isn't easy. You've never really helped me—just this once, please.

"He spilled something and needed a quick shower, that's all. Don't overthink it.

"And everyone in the industry thinks I'm single. I can't suddenly pop up with a husband."

Her excuses were airtight. Not a crack to slip through.

If I pushed back now, I'd just look petty.

So I dropped my gaze and started replying to urgent work messages.

Then Alec swaggered over, flopped down next to me like he paid the bills.

"Not many guys these days live off a woman's money," he said, full smirk mode.

He slid me a business card.

"Alec Humbert, tech dev at Leandro Corp."

Donna looked at him like he just invented air.

Neither of them had a clue.

Alec didn't know yet—he was too new to realize he just flexed on his CEO.

Donna never gave a damn. Everything was always about her. In her head, I was just that "lucky loser" who hit a $10 million jackpot eight years ago. She never even tried to know me.

She saw my blank face, saw I wasn't reaching for Alec's card, and snapped.

"You're just household staff. Alec giving you his card? That's respect. And now you're acting cocky? There's nothing to clean—just leave."

She shoved me toward the door and slapped a trash bag in my hands.

"Take this out on your way."

Right on top? Two used condoms.

Rage burned through me. I wanted to walk back in and slap the smug off both their faces.

Then Alec picked something up from the table.

"This must be expensive, huh?"

It was my pocket watch. My mom's. The only thing she ever left me. I'd cried over it more times than I could admit.

I polished that thing every day like it was sacred. One scratch and it wrecked me.

And Donna knew that.