Exchanged Marriage：the CEO's two-faced wife

Seraphina’s POV 

“What is this? Expired canned sardines?” Dante’s voice sliced through the air, sharp and accusing.

My heart skipped a beat.

“Calliope, you’ve been married to me for three years, and you still don’t know I’m allergic to nuts and seafood? Tell me what you are capable to do if you can not even be merely a housewife?”

Dante, my husband, dressed in a tailored English suit, sat at the jasmine-covered dining table, looking as commanding as ever. He never allowed anyone to contradict him—not even me, his wife.

I froze, my fingers gripping the edge of my apron as if it could shield me from the storm boiling in front of me.

“Dante, it was just—a mistake. I'm sorry, I—” I started, my tone careful, almost pleading, but he cut me off before I could explain.

“Just a mistake?” he sneered. “No, Calliope, it’s neglect. Carelessness. I come home after a long day, and this is what you serve me?”

His voice carried the cold authority of a boss berating an incompetent employee.

“It’s not just today. Every little thing you do—every meal, every gesture—it’s all just halfhearted. Do you even try anymore?”

When I looked up, I met Dante’s gaze—cold and full of disdain. My hands balled into fists at my sides. My teeth clenched as his words dug deep, stripping away every effort I had ever made.

The beautifully set table, the flowers, the candles—all of it now seemed like a joke.

Dante tossed his napkin aside and stood, his chair scraping against the polished floor.

Instinctively, I reached for his sleeve, my fingers trembling.

My throat tightened as I tried to hold back the sting of humiliation.

“Dante, I didn’t mean to—”

His phone rang.

The sharp, urgent tone filled the space between us, snapping his attention away.

The Laurent family was in turmoil after the death of old Martin, Dante’s father. Dante had no time for his young wife’s mishaps. Without a second thought, he shoved me away.

I stumbled, my back hitting the chair behind me, barely managing to catch myself before falling.

Dante hesitated for the briefest second. I thought he’d pick me up. But he didn’t. He straightened, adjusting his cuffs, and looked down at me with an expression that sent a chill through me. Distant. Detached. As if I were nothing.

“Clean up this mess,” he ordered before grabbing his suit. “And iron my shirt. I need it ready by morning.”

I sat there, unmoving, as he walked out the door without a backward glance.

The flowers remained fresh. The house staff exchanged whispers. But all I could hear was the echo of my own hollow laughter.

This was my third year of marriage to Dante.

We’d had countless arguments over the past three years—over the petty details of everyday life. The biting, red-faced anger seemed to erupt far too often.

The truth was, I had been playing the role of my sister, Calliope, for the last three years.

But Calliope was not my name.

I was Seraphina, a small-time perfumer known as Sylvaine in the industry. I was 23 when I garnered some fame for Sanctuary Iris, a fragrance I personally developed.

I thought I was on the verge of fulfilling my dream, ready to start my own brand, but then everything fell apart. My twin sister, Calliope, disappeared with her lover just before she was set to marry the only son of the Laurent family.

The Laurents were powerful—so powerful, they had nothing left to lose. If they found out Calliope had been frolicing in the woods just before the wedding, their wrath would have destroyed my family.

I couldn't let that happen, so I became Dante's bride instead of Calliope.

Growing up, Calliope and I couldn’t be more different. She reveled in glamour and had a taste for life’s finer luxuries, while I toiled away in the lab, pouring my heart into research. I never had the knack for housework or taking care of others.

Calliope could always get her way through her sweet voice and innocent smiles—something I could never manage. Because I wasn’t her, and I could never be her.

Now, the arguments have worn me down.

The small fondness I once had for him, back when we were in college, had long since withered under his constant ridicule. Not that I knew him well back then. But at least, I thought he was a nice person.

I had lived as Calliope  for so long that I sometimes forgot who I really was. But tonight, sitting on the cold floor, staring at the mockery of a life I had built, I knew one thing.

I couldn’t do this anymore.

My life wasn’t mine.

It was an illusion, a performance. And if I continued playing this role, I would disappear completely.

No more pretending.

This mistake cannot be allowed to continue.

I needed to divorce Dante.

I untied my apron and draped it over the back of Dante’s chair before walking upstairs. I pulled out my phone and hit record. Tears streamed down my face as I spoke, my voice shaking with carefully controlled grief. I painted the perfect picture of a broken wife—a woman abandoned and mistreated.

When I was done, I sent the video to Dante.

Then I grabbed a pen and signed the divorce agreement, leaving it neatly on the table.

I packed quickly, methodically, the weight on my chest lifting with every folded piece of clothing.

When I stepped out of the villa, my shoulders trembled with fake sobs. But the moment I crossed the gates, I wiped my tears away.

Good riddance.

The sky is dim and gloomy.

I stood still and found Dante's name in my phone's address book.

My fingers lingered on that name for a while, and eventually deleted Dante from my address book.