The divorce agreement landed on the coffee table with a thud, disturbing the silence of our living room. My husband, David, stood over me, his expression colder than the marble floor beneath my feet.
Our marriage term is three years, he stated, his voice devoid of warmth. It ends in one month. Sign this agreement now, and I will give you an extra twenty million. If you do not, the contract ends automatically, and you get nothing.
I looked up at him, my heart pounding against my ribs. I was his wife. For three years, I had been his shadow, his caretaker, his safe harbor. I learned to cook his favorite meals, studied acupuncture for his headaches, and loved him with a quiet desperation that I hoped would one day be returned. But now, looking at his impatient face, I realized I was just a placeholder.
David, I whispered, my hand instinctively moving to my flat stomach. What if I told you I was pregnant?
It was a desperate move. A last-ditch effort to make him see me, to make him stay.
David sneered. I had a vasectomy before we got married. The kid cannot be mine.
My breath hitched. He was the only man I had ever been with.
Do not insult my intelligence, Cherry, he spat. I will have the lawyers send over the revised papers.
He walked away without a backward glance, leaving me alone with the shattering realization that my marriage was built on a lie. But the real blow came an hour later, when my mother called.
Cherry! she chirped. Your sister is back! She is on the afternoon flight. Come home with David for dinner tonight.
Jane. My sister. The prodigal daughter. The one David was supposed to marry three years ago before she ran off to Paris with an artist. Now she was back, and suddenly, David is rush to divorce me made perfect sense.
That night at dinner, I watched them. David, who usually walked ahead of me, was holding an umbrella over Jane, shielding her from the rain while his own shoulder got soaked. He looked at her with a tenderness he had never shown me.
I realized then that I was just a supporting character in their love story. The obstacles had been cleared, the villain defeated, and now the hero and heroine were ready for their happy ending.
But they forgot one thing. Even a supporting character can rewrite the script.
I did not sign the papers. Instead, I started eating well, sleeping late, and ignoring David completely. When he got hospitalized for stomach issues—likely from eating spicy food with Jane—I visited him with a thermos of plain porridge made from my leftovers.
And that is where I met him. Simon. David is arch-enemy. The man who had spent years trying to one-up David in business and life. He was leaning against the doorframe of David hospital room, a wicked grin on his face.
Making that man so mad feels good, huh? Simon whispered as I walked out.
Get lost, I snapped.
But Simon did not get lost. He started showing up everywhere. At my doctors appointments. At the grocery store. And when a car almost hit me on the street, he was the one who pushed me out of the way, taking the impact himself.
While David was busy rekindling his romance with Jane, Simon was learning how to change diapers for a baby that was not his.
Four years later, I returned to the city. I walked into a room where David stood, looking older and tired. Beside me was a little boy with sharp eyes and a familiar jawline.
David froze. That kid… he whispered, his face turning pale.
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