Hypocrisy

When I went to buy a new house, all I found was crumpled newspaper where my savings should've been. I almost called the cops—until I found out Tony Jarrett, my own husband, had blown seven years of my hard-earned cash on a shiny new motorcycle. For Pauline Schmidt. His ex. I asked why. He just shrugged. "She's a single mom. Life's tough. This way, she won't have to walk so much." I wanted to scream, but I swallowed it down. Made him at least get an IOU from her. While I was busy sourcing stuff for the factory, a flood warning hit our town. And Tony? Out buying toy cars with Pauline and her kid. Our son was home alone, trying to stay above water. I was back. Like life hit rewind and dropped me into that exact day. The day he gave her the motorcycle. I saw them—laughing, tight, like their own little picture-perfect family. But I didn't cry this time. Didn't beg. Just turned and walked off.

Everyone in Sparrowville said that Margaret Chapman was the happiest woman in town. Gavin Hartley showered her with gifts—a sapphire ring, an asteroid after her name—treating her like she was the center of his universe. Margaret had always believed it, too. Until the day she accidentally discovered the woman he had been hiding in his villa. For ten years, he had kept her there—his childhood sweetheart. After she lost herself to schizophrenia, she had said, "Margaret is me." And so, for nearly seven years, Gavin had courted Margaret and cherished her, playing out a love story that had never truly been hers. Margaret's heart crumbled to ash after she found out the truth. She left without looking back, moving to a country thousands of miles away. But she never imagined that Gavin would lose himself to rage, his eyes burning red as he nearly tore Sparrowville apart. "Where the hell is Margaret?!"

At my wedding, the giant screen that's supposed to show our photos suddenly switches to the groom's assistant's prenatal exam report. It clearly shows that he is the child's father. The assistant looks flustered and panicked as she rushes to apologize to me. The groom, on the other hand, stays perfectly calm and offers an explanation like it's no big deal. "I took pity on her because she got pregnant out of wedlock, so I went with her to the appointment and left my name. I'm going to be her kid's godfather, too." The day of her exam was also the day I went for my very first prenatal checkup. Everyone thinks I'll break down, but I simply reach up and tear off my veil. Then, I calmly schedule an abortion. "She really is pitiful, being pregnant without a partner by her side. She deserves this wedding more than I do." Then, I raise my champagne glass to congratulate him. "Congratulations to you both. May your shotgun wedding be a happy one, especially since it's happening with a bun in the oven."

After being married for five years, my husband, Harvey Jepson, brings his first love, Debbie Grayson, home after a six-month business trip. Debbie is over three months pregnant. Harvey says it's hard for her alone, so she's temporarily living with us. I say no, and Harvey warns me to know my place. His scornful tone seems to hint that he's forgotten this villa was a wedding gift to me. He and his family have been leeching off me for the past five years. This time, I'm cutting all of them off. I smile and call my assistant. "Draw up a divorce agreement for me now. To think a live-in husband would have the nerve to bring his mistress home so boldly."

When my best friend died, his wife, Mia Lewis, was eight months pregnant. Mia said she didn't want her baby growing up without a father. I owed my best friend my life. He saved me, literally pulled me from death's door. So I stepped up, marrying Mia and raising their son as my own. Mia loved her career, so I quit mine. Traded my job for diapers and school runs. For seven whole years, I cooked, cleaned, folded laundry, and handled the housework. Rain or shine, sickness or health, I was there—every single day. Mia, though? She stayed cold, distant. Her warmth only surfaced in the bedroom—and even then, it was a flicker, never a flame. Just soft sighs and breathy murmurs, like she was playing a role she couldn't wait to finish. Afterward, she would quietly check the condom, as if she couldn't trust me. Then came New Year's Eve. A snap. A tear. A broken condom. Her fury struck like a thunderclap. She locked me out on the balcony, left me standing in the freezing rain, soaked to the bone as the wind howled like a wounded beast. Teeth chattering, I shivered as I watched the door like a dog, waiting to be let in. Then I saw him. Our boy, Ethan Bailey. Six years old. My son, at least in name. He came running with an umbrella in his hand. For a second, my heart leapt. 'Maybe, just maybe…' But he didn't even look at me. Just walked past in silence and handed the umbrella to the nanny heading out. Right then and there, something inside me cracked. I knew it was time to go.

On the day I was supposed to marry Cyrus Lloyd, his crush returned from abroad. She held a notice which said she did not have long to live and smiled sadly. “Cyrus, I thought you’d let me wear a wedding dress one last time.” To grant her wish, Cyrus gave her my wedding dress. He even made her as the bride instead of me. He locked me inside the dressing room. Through the door, he said in annoyance, “We still have a future together. What’s wrong with letting her have this?” Later, a rich guy who secretly had a crush on me proposed to me. With teary eyes, Cyrus begged, “Do you really not care about me anymore because of him?” I took a step back. “We don’t have a future anymore. Why should I care about you?”

On our fifth anniversary, Henry Judd—the guy who once swore he'd propose—rented out an entire mall for Cecilia Cheape's birthday. A diamond the size of a pigeon's egg sparkled on her finger. I'd been dumb enough to think it was meant for me. "Cece, I'm gonna give you a birthday you'll never forget," he announced, loud enough for the whole world to hear. Then he yanked the tab off a soda can and handed it to me. "Lulu, those gaudy things don't suit you. You deserve something unique." He slid the can tab onto my finger—his version of a proposal. Cecilia got the dream birthday. I got a piece of trash and a slap of reality. Later, when he found out I was marrying someone else, he got down on one knee with that same ring and begged me to say yes.

At the wedding I've spent months planning, my usually stoic fiancé, Anthony Scott, is about to run off with his assistant, Erica Jones. To top it all off, she is wearing a wedding gown. Out of nowhere, his younger brother, Christopher Scott, grabs my hand and plans to pull me straight to City Hall. He disregards my panicking eyes. "Let's get married," he says, as if it's the most normal thing in the world. Then, the stage decorations suddenly collapse, revealing a room full of guests mocking and laughing at me. The two men who once swore to love me forever do all just to make Erica smile. The three of them clink glasses and drink a love toast on stage, completely lost in their own moment. "The wedding you planned was way too outdated. You should thank Erica for turning it into a bachelorette party!" "The real wedding will be this Sunday. Isn't Erica's idea amazing?" Anthony and Christopher were confident that I wouldn't dare leave them. But I quietly pick up my phone and type a message. "Let's set the wedding date for this Sunday, Levi."

My husband was tall and handsome, but he had no money to pay his debts. During the five years of our marriage, I sold my house and car for him. We then moved to a dark and humid basement that was only 300 square feet in size. When I got pregnant, I wanted to go for checkups, but he said that there was no need for it, as it was a waste of money. So I gave birth to a baby with a congenital heart condition. In order to get the money for his surgery, I worked three jobs every day. At that time, I noticed that my husband bought a mansion worth 40 million dollars for an influencer, and I finally realized that my husband was no orphan, but the son of the richest man in the country.

On Valentine’s Day, my girlfriend Florence Higgins was rushed to the hospital after accidentally eating undercooked wild mushrooms. Half-conscious on the hospital bed, she murmured, “Michael… I owed you too much. If my family’s company hadn’t been on the brink of collapse, you wouldn’t have left, and I wouldn’t have ended up with Noah.” I am Noah Owens. As for Michael Connor, he was the love of her life. The one she cherished most during her youth. What she seemed to forget was that when her family’s company was about to collapse, Michael had been the first to walk away. During those seven years, I was the one who helped revive her company, the one who stayed by her side. I believed she might eventually have a change of heart, but I never expected her to abort our child for the sake of her first love. At that moment, I finally understood that you can’t force warmth where there is none.