Overlooked Wife, Officially Done

By the time I got through my dad's funeral, it was already past midnight.

And yep—Millie had just dropped another update.

She and Dylan were out there, chilling by a bonfire with the locals, stargazing like it was some indie movie.

Dylan—who never posted anything—left a comment under her photo:

[As long as you like it.]

Our mutual friends flooded them with blessings.

They all knew I was his wife, but still treated Dylan and Millie like the real couple.

I felt like the extra—like I snuck in while Millie was on a coffee break.

Dylan huffed and puffed over a beach trip with me, but for her? He was suddenly fine hiking up where the air's thinner than his excuses.

I could beg a hundred times—it'd never beat one look from Millie.

I was done.

After everything, I stood on the hospital rooftop, staring at the pale moonlight over Seavora.

That's when Dylan finally called. Not to ask how I was. Not a word about the funeral.

Just to circle back to what I'd said hours ago.

"You bring up divorce every other day. Aren't you tired of this?"

No, Dylan. You're the one who kept throwing that word around.

I was ready to clap back—then didn't.

Why bother?

He thought I'd never leave. Thought I was too in love, too loyal, too scared to walk.

That's why he dangled divorce like a threat.

Because for eight years, I always folded.

He made it look like I was using it to mess with him.

But this time? The first time I said it?

It was the last.

"My dad's gone," I said. "No need to keep faking the loving husband act for him."

Dylan went quiet. When he finally spoke, his voice had that fake soft edge.

"Where are you? I'll come keep you company."

Where was I?

Was he seriously about to ditch Millie and hop on a twelve-hour flight just for me?

Yeah, right.

But he'd already hung up.

I just wanted to go home and crash, but somewhere between the rooftop and the stairs, everything went black.

I must've passed out and taken a tumble.

***

When I came to, I was in a hospital bed.

The nurse who'd helped care for my dad spotted me and said I'd fainted from low blood sugar and tumbled down the stairs.

Mild concussion. Needed to be monitored.

Then she asked if any family was with me.

I checked my phone. Nothing from Dylan. Not even a text.

But Millie? She'd posted again:

[The thin mountain air is no joke! We were having fun all day and then suddenly I just collapsed. Luckily you were there for me.]

The photo? Her holding Dylan's hand.

And the kicker?

On his finger was a wedding ring from me.

And the matching one?

On hers.

I remembered not too long ago, when I was dead tired from taking care of Dad and forgot to make Dylan dinner, he shot me this annoyed look.

"Judy Jolliffe, I've got multi-million-dollar deals waiting for me. I didn't marry you to wait on you."

Right. But now he could drop the company for three whole days—just to play house with Millie.

It's not that he didn't know how to love.

He just never loved me.

And yeah, I still remembered the night Millie left the country.

Dylan was at some bar, drinking like the world had ended, crying about how she'd betrayed him—swearing he'd never forgive her.

That was the first time we met.

I didn't even say much. Just sat there and listened because he looked so heartbreakingly alone.