Chapter1

Five years. Five years I’d spent building a life with Mark, pouring my heart and soul into our marriage, into his dreams. And on my birthday, the one day I’d hoped he’d remember to put me first, he was a no-show. Not even a text. The man couldn’t even be bothered to make it home before midnight.

As if the sting of being forgotten wasn’t enough, his secretary, Jessica, decided to twist the knife. My phone buzzed with a notification: Jessica, all smiles, a brand new, sparkling ring on her finger, an exact replica of the one Mark had promised he'd find for me "someday". The caption? "The sweetest birthday gift from the best CEO."

It was like a punch to the gut. All those late nights I’d spent helping Mark with his company, pouring over spreadsheets instead of planning birthday parties, supporting his every dream while my own gathered dust… all for this? For him to shower my replacement with empty gestures and cheap imitations of the promises he’d made to me?

My blood was boiling, but I knew a public meltdown wouldn’t help. I plastered on a smile, liked the picture, and typed out a response, my fingers shaking with suppressed rage. “Looks great on you,” I commented, the words dripping with venom I knew only I could taste.

Less than a minute later, Mark’s face filled my phone screen. Video chat. Jessica was tucked under his arm, her mascara conveniently smudged, sniffling like a heartbroken child. The crocodile tears were almost comical.

“Come on, babe, lighten up! It was a joke!” Mark chuckled, but his voice was strained, the usual arrogance replaced by a flicker of something that might have been guilt. Or maybe just annoyance.

“Enough drama for one day, okay? Just have dinner ready when I get home. And Amelia,” he added, his voice hardening, “this is the last time I’m putting up with your temper tantrums.”

Temper tantrums? He called this a temper tantrum? If this was a year ago, even a month ago, I would have given him a real show. I would have screamed, I would have cried, I would have thrown his precious golf clubs out the window. But now? Now, all I felt was a bone-deep weariness. I was tired of fighting, tired of begging for scraps of his attention, tired of being the invisible woman in his life.

I placed the signed divorce papers on the table, the crisp white envelope a stark contrast to the chaos swirling inside me. Then, I grabbed my suitcase and walked out.

He was right about one thing: this was the last time.

Chapter2

The aroma of Mark’s favorite dishes, the ones I'd meticulously prepared for our failed birthday celebration, mocked me as I tossed the last of the cake in the trash. He'd promised a special night, a night just for us. So, like the lovestruck fool I was, I bought the expensive wine he liked, even picked out a new dress. I should have known better.

He finally strolled in around 2 AM, smelling of expensive cologne and someone else’s perfume. “Starving! Amelia, where’s my dinner?”

I didn’t bother looking up from the dishes. Mark had the palate of a pampered child and the stomach of a hummingbird. In the past, him uttering the word “hungry” was all it took. I'd drop everything, even if it meant burning dinner or missing a deadline, just to cater to him.

Not anymore.

He sat down at the table, that same irritated crease forming between his brows, the one that used to make me want to smooth away all his troubles. As I scraped the last plate, I asked, “Didn’t you eat out?”

He just laughed, a humorless, condescending sound, and pulled a velvet box out of his pocket. “Think I forgot your birthday? Don’t be silly. Jess picked this out for you. You should really try to be nicer to her, Amelia. She’s got great taste, I’ll give her that.”

One look at the ring inside the box was all it took. The same one Jessica was wearing. Meant for me, but clearly a second choice, a consolation prize after she'd had her pick.

“Give it back to Jessica,” I said, my voice flat, devoid of the emotion that used to make him uncomfortable.

He frowned, those perfectly sculpted eyebrows furrowing in that way that used to make my heart skip a beat. Now, all it inspired was annoyance. “What’s that supposed to mean? I’m trying to be nice.”

"It means I don’t want your hand-me-downs.”

“Amelia, enough! Why can’t you be more like Jessica? She’s always so… thoughtful.” He sighed, a dramatic, put-upon sigh that used to send me rushing to his side. “Sometimes I wonder if marrying you was a mistake. The least you could do is not give me the silent treatment after a long day.”

His words stung, but not as much as they would have a few weeks ago. The veil had lifted, you see. I wasn't blind anymore. I saw him for what he truly was: a selfish, entitled man-child who took my love, my loyalty, my very existence for granted.

It hadn't always been like this. There was a time when we were crazy in love, two kids with big dreams and even bigger hearts, determined to take on the world together. I’d graduated top of my class with a degree in finance, but when Mark had decided to start his own tech company, I hadn't hesitated. I quit my high-paying job and poured every ounce of my energy, my creativity, my very soul into making his dream a reality. I spent countless nights hunched over spreadsheets, negotiating with investors, even using my own savings to keep the company afloat when times got tough.

Then came his request, or rather, his demand, for a home-cooked meal every night. “A man needs his comfort food,” he’d said, his tone brooking no argument. So, I swallowed my own ambitions, became the stay-at-home wife, the smiling hostess, the invisible support system holding his world together. All for him, for us, for a future that now felt as distant and illusory as a mirage in the desert.

"Give it to your precious Jessica," I repeated, shoving the velvet box towards him, my hand surprisingly steady. "It probably smells like her cheap perfume anyway.”

That’s when I saw a flash of the man I used to love. His eyes narrowed, his jaw clenched, and for a moment, I thought he might actually hit me.

“Don’t push me, Amelia! You know I’ll file those papers.”

He was breathing hard, his chest heaving, but the threat in his voice lacked its usual bite. It was as if a part of him, a tiny, flickering part, knew he was bluffing.

"Then do it," I said, meeting his gaze head-on, my voice devoid of the fear that had kept me chained to him for far too long.

The silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating. Finally, he looked away, defeated. The ring box slipped from his grasp and clattered to the floor, the sound echoing in the silence.

Chapter3

"How long are you gonna keep this up, Amelia?” he finally asked, his voice weary, as if he was the one who’d been carrying the weight of our crumbling marriage.

“It’s just a birthday present,” he continued, his tone almost pleading. “Where did all this pettiness come from?”

Pettiness? I wanted to laugh. Was that what he called it? Five years of my life, of my love, reduced to "pettiness"?

"She works her butt off for me, you know," he went on, his voice rising in anger. "Jessica is loyal, dedicated… she understands what it means to be part of a team. You? You just sit at home all day, spending my money. What more do you want from me?!"

His words hit me like a slap. What more did I want? Maybe a thank you for the years I’d spent building his empire alongside him, for sacrificing my own dreams so he could achieve his. Maybe a sliver of the respect and appreciation he so freely showered on his assistant, the woman who now warmed our bed and wore my clothes.

But what was the point? We were getting a divorce anyway. The papers were signed, the ink dry. All that remained was for one of us to work up the courage to actually say the words out loud.

I didn't bother arguing. After a quick shower, I retreated to the guest room, the one that used to be my sanctuary, a place where I could escape the constant demands of being Mrs. Mark Wilson.

As I drifted off to sleep, I could hear him on the phone downstairs, his voice a low murmur.

"I'm on my way… Don't worry, money talks, right?"

The irony was sickening. I thought back to all the times I’d twisted myself into knots trying to please him, trying to be the perfect wife, the perfect business partner, the perfect… everything. The time I’d flown across the country to close a deal for his company, only to have him greet me at the airport with a distracted pat on the head and a mumbled, "Good job, honey." Or the time I’d spent all night negotiating with a difficult client, downing cheap whiskey to mask my disgust, only to come home to him passed out on the couch, an empty pizza box and a half-empty bottle of scotch his only companions.

But for Jessica? For Jessica, he was willing to move mountains. He’d rearrange his schedule, cancel meetings, even miss his own mother's birthday party, all with a smile and a whispered, "Anything for you, babe."

Exhaustion finally claimed me, pulling me under into a restless sleep filled with fractured dreams and unanswered questions. When I woke, the sun was streaming through the window, painting the unfamiliar room in a cold, unforgiving light.

That's when the clarity hit me. It was like waking up from a long, feverish dream. I deserved better. I deserved a life filled with passion, with purpose, with someone who actually saw me, who valued me for more than just my ability to cook a decent lasagna and balance a checkbook.

It was time to reclaim my life.

I started that day. I contacted a lawyer, a fierce, intelligent woman who specialized in "liberating women from bad relationships." Her words, not mine. I also started drafting plans for my own consultancy firm, channeling all my frustration, my anger, my untapped potential into something positive. It would be my revenge, my way of proving to Mark, and to myself, that I was capable of so much more than being Mrs. Mark Wilson.

A few weeks later, opportunity came knocking. A friend of a friend put me in touch with a major player in the tech industry, a man everyone called Mr. Lewis. He was known for his sharp mind, his even sharper tongue, and his uncanny ability to spot potential where others saw only risk. He was hosting a party, a gathering of the city's movers and shakers, and it was the perfect opportunity to pitch my ideas.

Naturally, Mark and Jessica were there. I spotted them the moment I walked in, Jessica clinging to his arm like a prized possession, her laughter echoing a little too loudly in the crowded room. The air crackled with tension as Mark's eyes met mine across the room, his face hardening into a mask of displeasure.

“Amelia? What are you doing here?” His voice dripped with disapproval, the same tone he used to use when I’d forgotten to buy his favorite brand of coffee or accidentally shrunk his lucky shirt in the wash.

Jessica, never one to miss an opportunity to assert her dominance, chimed in, her voice a sickly-sweet syrup that set my teeth on edge. “Oh, Mr. Wilson, didn't you tell her about this event? It’s so exciting, isn't it? But then again, maybe she doesn’t trust you to handle these things, honey. Don’t worry, darling,” she cooed, patting his arm condescendingly, “I’m here to make sure you don’t get into any trouble.”

I ignored her, my gaze fixed on Mark, a challenge burning in my eyes. Before he could say another word, I felt a hand close around my arm, his grip surprisingly strong.

“What do you think you’re doing, Amelia?” He hissed, his voice low and dangerous, dragging me towards a secluded corner of the room, away from the prying eyes and gossiping mouths.

"This project is crucial," he continued, his grip tightening on my arm as if he could physically restrain me from pursuing my own ambitions. “And Jessica," he spat out her name like a curse, “she’s the only one who can help me. So, whatever harebrained scheme you’re cooking up, I suggest you drop it. Don’t you dare screw this up for me, Amelia. I swear...”

His words hung in the air, unspoken threats heavy with the weight of our history, of all the times I’d backed down, given in, sacrificed my own happiness for his. But not this time. This time, something inside me snapped.

I wrenched my arm free, ignoring the throbbing pain that shot up my arm, a physical manifestation of years of repressed anger and resentment.

"Or what, Mark?" I countered, my voice surprisingly steady despite the tremor of fear that ran through me. "What will you do? Divorce me? Be my guest. Go right ahead!"

And with that, I turned and walked away, leaving him speechless, his anger a tangible presence in the suffocating air.

I didn’t need him. I didn’t need his approval, his permission, his money. I was done being his shadow, his afterthought, his conveniently silent partner. I was Amelia, and I was finally ready to claim my place in the world.

I spent the next hour talking to Mr. Lewis, surprised to find that he actually remembered me from the early days of Mark's company, back when I was the one pitching ideas, closing deals, and working myself to the bone. He looked at me now, at the fire in my eyes, the quiet confidence in my voice, and I saw a flicker of recognition.

“Where’s that firecracker who helped you build your empire, Wilson?” he boomed, shaking my hand with a strength that belied his age. "The one who could charm the pants off a venture capitalist and still make it home in time to cook dinner? That woman… she disappeared on me, you did. Come on, let’s talk."

I spent the rest of the evening engrossed in conversation with Mr. Lewis, barely noticing as Mark and Jessica glared at us from across the room, their faces a mixture of shock, anger, and something that looked suspiciously like… fear?

The next day, I received a call from Mr. Lewis's assistant. He loved my ideas, loved my passion, and most importantly, he believed in me. He was giving me the project.

My heart soared. It was a victory, not just for me, but for all the women who had ever been underestimated, overlooked, dismissed as "just a wife." This wasn’t just a business deal; it was a chance to rewrite my story, to finally step into the spotlight and claim the recognition I deserved.

The victory was short-lived. Mark called as soon as I hung up, his voice tight with suppressed fury.

“What the hell did you do, Amelia?” He sounded like I'd stolen something from him, which, in a way, I supposed I had. I’d stolen his narrative, his control, his illusion of power.

“Amelia,” he said, his voice softening, trying a different tactic, “why can’t you just let me take care of you? You're thirty years old, don’t you think it’s time to give up on these pipe dreams? You’re not going to achieve anything by yourself. Just come home, forget about all this nonsense. I'll take care of everything.”

His words, meant to soothe and cajole, only fueled my anger. Take care of me? Was that what he called it?

“My career choices are none of your business, Mark,” I said, my voice shaking despite my best efforts. We’ll talk about the divorce when you get back from your… trip.”

“Trip?” He scoffed. “This isn’t a trip, Amelia, this is business. And this… this little company of yours? It’s a joke. A distraction. Close it down. I'm giving you two days, Amelia. Two days to come to your senses. If you don’t, I promise you’ll regret it.”

He hung up before I could respond, his words echoing in the silence. Regret? He had no idea. He was playing a game he didn’t even realize he’d already lost.