Till Divorce Do Us Part

ALEXA

The phone screen burned into my eyes, the moans filling the quiet room like a sick joke.  

“Oh yes, harder, Mark, please fuck me harder!”  

My stomach twisted as I watched my husband thrust into another woman, her voice shamelessly calling out his name. The same name I had whispered in the dark when he was unconscious in that hospital bed, clinging to life. The name I had prayed over when I fought to bring him back.  

And this was my reward? This betrayal—on the night of our fifth anniversary? On my birthday?  

My fingers trembled as I gripped the phone tighter. A notification popped up, a fresh slap to my face.  

"Do you like the birthday gift I sent you, dear sis?"  

I didn’t need to check the sender. I could already see Ivy’s smug face in my mind, could hear the gloating in her voice.  

"See? Just a flick of my finger and he comes running back. Don’t think your pathetic care ever mattered. To Mark, you’re just a poor nanny."  

A poor nanny. A mocking smile curled my lips. That was what he called the five years I had spent by his side? The sleepless nights, the endless days nursing him back to health? I never expected love—our marriage had been sudden, born out of obligation rather than affection. But respect? I thought, at the very least, I had earned that.  

How foolish of me.  

Another message came through.  

"Wait and see, he’ll divorce you soon and put his heir in my belly. If it weren’t for you, we would have had our happiness five years ago."  

My blood ran cold. How dare she?  

Five years ago, Mark had been on his way to their engagement party when tragedy struck. The accident left him in a coma, hanging on by a thread. And Ivy—his so-called love—didn’t even hesitate. She fled the country that very night.  

She abandoned him.  

But when Mark miraculously woke up a few months ago, she slithered back into his life, rewriting history as if she had never run away. And now, she dared to blame me?  

I dialed her number, fury shaking my hands. The call went straight to voicemail. Coward. I switched to Mark’s number, only to realize—I didn’t even have it saved.  

The bitter truth settled deep in my bones.  

I was never really his wife, was I? Just a replacement. A convenient stand-in to keep the Ronaldo family’s honor intact. My father had begged me to take Ivy’s place, desperate to secure our family’s standing. And I—starved for his approval, for a shred of belonging—had agreed. I told myself it was for Mark, that I pitied him. But the truth was simpler.  

I loved him.  

I had loved him since childhood, long before Ivy ever entered the picture. And when I put that ring on my finger, a tiny, foolish part of me had hoped.  

But hope had no place in this marriage.  

Mark’s first words to me when he woke up had been ice-cold:  

"Don’t expect love from me. You know who has my heart. You’ll only ever be my wife on paper."  

I should have walked away then. But I stayed. And now, as I stared at the video of him with another woman, as I read my stepsister’s taunts, I realized—  

This was my final humiliation.  

I shut off the phone. My gaze landed on the birthday cake I had carefully prepared, the candles still unlit. Slowly, I struck a match, watching the flames flicker to life.  

I whispered to the empty room, “Happy birthday, Alexa. And happy every day from now on.”  

The candlelight danced before me, the wax melting away—just like the years I had wasted.  

I took a breath and blew out the candle.  

A door creaked open behind me.  

I didn’t turn. I knew who it was.  

The air shifted as Mark stepped inside, flicking on the lights. His presence swallowed the room, commanding as ever. He glanced around, his eyes landing on the untouched food on the table. Then he looked at me.  

I waited for him to say something—anything. But he didn’t. His silence, the cold indifference in his blue eyes, said enough.  

Then he turned, heading for the stairs.  

Something inside me snapped.  

Before I knew it, I was on my feet, my chair scraping loudly against the floor. “Aren’t you going to say anything to me?”  

He stopped mid-step, his shoulders stiffening for the briefest moment before he turned to face me. His expression was unreadable, but the mild irritation in his eyes was unmistakable, as if I had interrupted something far more important than acknowledging the woman he had vowed to spend his life with.  

“What’s there to say to you?” His voice was cold, devoid of even the smallest trace of warmth or guilt.  

I swallowed, my fingers curling into fists at my sides. My nails bit into my palms, but the pain was nothing compared to the ache swelling in my chest.  

“It’s our anniversary,” I said, my voice quieter than I intended. I forced myself to hold his gaze, even though the indifference in his eyes made my stomach churn. “And my birthday.”  

Mark’s gaze flicked lazily to the dining table, where the untouched food sat growing cold. Then his eyes met mine again, just as empty as before.  

“So?”  

The single word cut through me like a blade, slicing away the last shred of hope I didn’t even realize I had been clinging to.  

So?  

That was all he had to say? Not a hint of acknowledgment, not even a pretense of care. Just a dismissive, thoughtless response, as if the significance of this day meant absolutely nothing to him.  

A lump formed in my throat, my chest tightening with something I could no longer suppress. Pain. Anger. Humiliation. It all swirled together, suffocating me. But I refused to let it show.  

I forced my shoulders back, my chin lifting slightly. If he wanted to pretend that I was nothing, then I would pretend that his words didn’t just shatter something inside me.

I had given him everything. And to him, I was still nothing.  

Mark barely noticed my turmoil. He simply turned away. “I don’t have time for this.”  

He started up the stairs.  

“Wait,” I called out, my voice steady now.  

He paused, his impatience clear.  

“It seems I won’t be receiving a birthday present from you today.” I smiled, but it was bitter, hollow.

Mark frowned. He hated that look on my face—the look that said I had suffered for him. As if it wasn’t my choice to stay. As if I hadn’t benefited from this arrangement. He had given me the Ronaldo name, unlimited wealth. Wasn’t that enough?  

I took a step forward. “Then how about I give you a gift instead?”  

“Don’t bother,” he sighed. He was done with this conversation. Done with me.  

But I wasn’t done.  

“Listen, Mark Ronaldo.”  

This time, my voice didn’t waver.  

“It’s my anniversary present to you. Let’s divorce.”