Tragic Synonym

On my birthday, I personally prepare 16 dishes. After setting up the candlelight, I open a bottle of red wine. I take a photo and send it to my husband, Eric Sinclair. "I'm working late tonight. Don't wait for me," he replies. I choose to believe him. But after midnight, I notice an Instagram story posted by Shirley Huxley, his secretary. Eric was there with her, dressed in the trench coat I once gave him. They sat side by side in the VIP seat of football stadium where my favorite Super Bowl take place. Entwined in a passionate embrace, they kissed beneath a sea of shimmering lights and the roar of thousands of fans. That game is the one I have always longed to experience with him. I look down at the cold food on the table. Eric's words keep ringing in my head. "I hate kissing." "Marriage is a partnership, not about love and kisses." Though we've been married for ten years, we've never shared a single kiss. Meanwhile, he's out there, kissing Shirley openly and passionately. Despite it all, not a single tear falls from my eyes. The next day, Eric settles into his chair, completely unfazed. "Return the gallery to Shelly," he commands. I nod quietly, saying nothing. Suddenly, Layla Sinclair, my daughter, comes running down the stairs and throws herself into Shirley's arms. "Aunt Shirley, you're my favorite. I don't like Mom!" In that instant, it hits me—the home I devoted my heart and soul to means nothing anymore. It doesn't matter that I've been married to Eric for a decade. Now, all I want is to find myself again. I decide to accept an invitation from the Parisoir School of Fashion Design. From this moment on, I won't wait for them to come home, and I won't look back.

All along, I've been following a social media account that's dedicated to a couple sharing about their romance. It doesn't have a lot of followers, but the posts are all very heartwarming. The owner of the account records all the little details about his relationship with his girlfriend. They get into arguments over a plate of pasta before breaking into laughter and calling each other an overgrown child. They climb up the hill to hold each other under the sky full of stars, wishing they could make time pause at that very moment. Even though the owner of the account never reveals his face, I am always moved by the words he writes. The day before my wedding, the owner uploads a new post. "This marks the end of our ten-year relationship. From now on, she'll be his wife, and I'll only be his friend. There won't be any more updates to this account. I wish nothing but the best for my best friend and the woman he loves the most." The picture uploaded with this caption is one of my fiancee and me, taken from behind.

A post asked: "What did it feel like to marry someone you didn’t love?" My husband answered, "No fun in bed at all. Every day, I think about divorce." Owen Clinton’s first love, Luna Dawson, had returned to town, and sparks had reignited between them in secret. Luna, with smug confidence, had urged me to step aside. But I only laughed as I tossed the divorce papers at her. "If you were so capable, you’d get him to sign them. Otherwise, I won't even take you seriously.”

"Jamie, I've decided. I'm ready to join you at Hillridge as your exclusive screenwriter. I'll be there by the end of this month!" Melanie huddled in a quiet corner on the set as she made the call, a pregnancy test report clutched in her hand. She tried to shake off the chill from the freezing weather, but her hands and feet still felt painfully cold. Jamie's voice at the end of the line was a deep and pleasant baritone. "Your talent has long deserved a bigger stage. For eight years, you've turned me down nearly a hundred times for Ken's sake. Are you ready to leave him this time?" "Yes. I'm leaving him for good!" She clenched the pregnancy test report, her lips a bitter smile.

During the school holidays, I took my daughter to a park. I had barely entered the park entrance with my daughter when a supercar crossed the solid line and rear-ended us. The man who jumped out came storming toward me, furious. "Do you even know how to drive? Do you know how much this car costs? You can't afford it even if you went bankrupt!" I was about to argue back since he was clearly the one breaking traffic rules. But I froze. That car looked painfully familiar. Wasn't that the supercar my mother gave me the first year I took over the Milton Group? Even the license plate was identical. My wife, Hazel Bishop, had told me the engine was broken and that she'd sent it to the dealership for repairs. I met the man's arrogant stare. "Is this car really yours?" He paused, then grinned smugly. "My wife bought it for me. It's limited-edition. Someone like you wouldn't understand. Go call your family and sell your house. You owe me 200 thousand dollars." Sneering, he added, "Don't try anything clever. My wife's the GM of Milton Group. She has serious connections. She'll be here any minute." I let out a cold laugh. So Hazel canceled on our daughter today, not because of a business meeting, but because she was out spending the holiday with her lover and his kid instead.

On the night Uriah Parker married another woman, Irina Charlton trashed the home they had shared for eight years.

Justin Davidson and Eva Walker, the long-lost heiress of the Walker family, fell in love. But Eva's adopted sister, Stella, drove a wedge between them. Even after Stella’s death, Justin couldn’t let go of her. He trampled Eva’s dignity, hurt her body, and forced her to wear Stella’s wedding dress and ring when he proposed. Eva’s parents only had eyes for Stella, too. To pressure Eva further, Justin even went so far as to hurt Eva's grandmother, the one who had raised her. On the day of the wedding rehearsal, Eva finally decided to walk away. However, when the truth came out, Justin dropped to his knees and begged her not to leave.

No one knew that three days ago, the aloof CEO in the boardroom, Sophia Monroe, had been tangled up with me in her executive office, going at it for eight intense rounds. I thought Sophia had finally agreed to what I had been asking for. But then she pulled her dress back on, turned around, and disappeared without a trace. She was gone for an entire month. I stayed by Mom's grave for what felt like forever. Suddenly, my phone buzzed with the latest trending news. It was about Sophia's wedding of the century, but I was not the groom. At that moment, I was grateful Mom had not lived long enough to see Sophia's true colors. Before shutting off my phone, I sent her a message. [Monday. Courthouse. Divorce.]

By my third month on the job, I discovered that my coworkers had been calling me "the old crow" behind my back. The nickname came from none other than Jace's condescending secretary—because at 32, I was still clutching onto an eight-year relationship that hadn't ended in marriage. I confronted Jace. "Do you know your employees have been calling me the old crow?" He didn't even bother to look up. "That's just Sadie—she speaks her mind and means no harm. You're 32; why get so worked up over what a young girl says?" Then he gave me a faint, mocking smile. "Though honestly, it's a pretty fitting nickname." It felt like a cold hand had wrapped around my heart. So that was it—eight years of my youth, nothing more than a joke to him. I turned and walked away, handed in my resignation, and blocked every way he could reach me. But for the first time, the man who had always seemed so calm and untouchable finally panicked. "Elara," he pleaded, "please come back."

On the night of my 30th birthday, I waited until the early hours of the morning, but my husband, Theodore Hawk never showed up. Instead, I came across an Instagram post from his childhood sweetheart, Emily Gallagher. [What romantic is not the starry night, it is having you by my side.] In the picture, she was wearing a delicate, sky-blue camisole that revealed just enough to charm and seduce. A man stood close behind her, his hand firmly gripping her waist. The scene was set in the seaside villa that Theodore had gifted her, their figures intimately entwined under the soft glow of the night. Someone had commented beneath the post: [I can’t stand you two being this lovey-dovey all the time! Just get married already!] Emily had responded with a shy-face emoji. I had just liked the post when Theodore, who I had failed to reach all night, blew up my phone with calls. "Are you out of your mind, Camilla? Emi and I grew up together! If we wanted to be together, we would’ve done so long ago! Why are you being so petty?" Looking at how Theodore gently held her in his arms, comforting her, I realized something. Letting go of someone you’ve loved for seven years... can take only a moment.