Chapter 3

The 50th time Rosalind tore up our marriage certificate was in front of my most important client.

A multinational corporation from abroad had flown in to discuss an acquisition. If the deal went through, my company's valuation would triple at minimum.

I brought them to the best restaurant in the city. Rosalind insisted on coming along.

"And this is?" the CEO asked politely.

"My wife," I replied briefly.

Rosalind was unusually quiet that night, playing the part of a devoted spouse.

It wasn't until the third course arrived that she suddenly said, "Do you know what a marriage certificate looked like, Mr. Stevenson?"

Before Peter Stevenson could even reply, Rosalind pulled ours out of her handbag and tore it into pieces in front of everyone.

"Just like this." She scattered the pieces over the table. "As long as I'm happy, I can tear it apart anytime I want."

The private room went dead silent.

A scrap of paper clung to a slice of fatty tuna, making an absurd, grotesque decoration.

"Rosalind!" I hissed, voice strained.

Rosalind leaned close to my ear, her voice low and threatening. "The transfer agreement to the villa is in your briefcase. Sign it now."

That night, I signed the agreement while on my knees in the living room.

When I looked up, I saw a candlelit dinner set for two on the dining table. Rosalind and Jackson were clinking glasses.

The wine in their glasses was my prized 1983 collection.

…

The 100th time it happened, I was standing in my study, staring at our past marriage certificates in the safe.

All of them had been neatly restored and stacked inside. Each replacement copy recorded my humiliation.

From the living room came the sound of glass shattering.

This time, Rosalind had thrown away our custom wedding rings. They were the ones with "forever love" engraved on the inside.

"Have you finished signing the equity transfer agreement?" she asked, leaning against the doorframe.

On her collarbone was a fresh, perfectly shaped love bite.

I stared at it.

Having just returned from a business trip that morning, I bumped into Jackson as he was leaving our house. He claimed that he was there to return underwear Rosalind had left at his place.

"Rosalind." I kept my eyes on our marriage certificates as I whispered softly, "Is Jackson your childhood friend or your lover?"

Rosalind's expression froze. She then grabbed a crystal glass and hurled it at me. It shattered on impact, and blood ran down from my temple, hot and pungent.

"You actually had the nerve to investigate me?" she screamed, her voice as sharp as the shards on the floor.

I laughed. It was ridiculous how I'd convinced myself she was just spoiled and entitled all these years.

I said, "Last year, you said you wanted to open a beauty clinic, so I gave you five million dollars. Last month, you said Jackson needed capital for a project abroad. I transferred two million dollars to you."

Blood dripped onto the carpet.

I continued, "You used that money to buy him a villa, didn't you?"

Rosalind's diamond-studded fingers started to tremble. "So what if it was? Jackson is ambitious and passionate. He's much more interesting than a money-making robot like you!"

Thunder cracked outside the window, reminding me of the day we got married.

I suddenly recalled Rosalind's words then. She'd said, "Promise you'll forever spoil me like you do now, Hendery."

Suddenly, I realized that her "forever" was actually very short.

Blood slid down my temple, darkening the carpet.

Rosalind stood backlit in the doorway, the love bite on her collarbone burning my eyes like a branded mark of shame.