“Oh, and I’d like fish for dinneand. He was already slipping
I watched hi
on his shoes, ready to leave for work.
tonight,” he added casually, as though I were his personal assistant.
perfectly tailored suit disappear into the elevator. My heart sank a little deeper.
Oliver had always banned me from entering his home office, and for
The letters were hidden in plain sight, wedged between the pages of a romance novel on the bookshelf.
But the day before, he’d forgotten an important document and, in
seven SPICE
years, I’d respected that boundary.
had
“716523.”
me the door code:
I froze for a moment. The first three digits were his birthday. The last three weren’t mine.
Before I could say anything, he snapped over the phone, “I’m about to go
into court. Hurry
up!”
Flustered, I grabbed the folder, accidentally knocking a book to the floor.
Oliver didn’t read romance novels. Curious, I picked it up. The pink cover bore
an
inscription:
“To Luna, my one and only treasure.”
The handwriting was unmistakably his.
I flipped through the pages, and two letters fell out–one a love letter, the other a will.
The love letter was nineteen pages long, filled with heartfelt words that gradually shrank in size toward the end. On the last page, he wrote: “There’s so much more I want to say, but this paper is too short, and my feelings are endless.”
The will was precise, written with the same legal expertise Oliver used in his work. It outlined how most of his assets would go to Luna–his
first love.
He’d even taken out a life insurance policy, naming her as the sole beneficiary.
“Luna, even if I leave this world first, I’ll make sure you’re taken care of.”
That night, when Oliver reached out to unhook my bra strap, I pushed his hand away.
“Anna?” he said, confused, his fingers brushing against my collarbone. “What’s wrong? I want you.”
Normally, I would’ve blushed and let him have his way. But not that night.
“You said you didn’t want kids,” I replied flatly, my voice devoid of emotion.
From the very beginning of our marriage, Oliver had been adamant about not having children. He told my family it was because of my health, but the truth was, it was never about me.
For years, I’d endured lectures from my parents, swallowed bitter herbal supplements, and taken countless fertility treatments–all while knowing he didn’t share my burden.
<
For years, I’d endured lectures from my parents, swallowed bitter herbal supplements, and taken countless fertility treatments–all while knowing he didn’t share my burden.
Once, when I told him the treatments were harming my body, I caught a flicker of relief in his eyes.
“Just hold on a little longer,” he’d said, wrapping me in his arms. “Once my career stabilizes, we’ll try for a baby. I promise.”
I believed him. And I kept believing him, even as the years passed and his promises remained empty.
That night, when I rejected him, his expression turned cold. He rolled over, muttering, “Fine. Play hard to get. Don’t expect me to try again this month.”
I lay awake all night, staring at the ceiling.
It was a king–sized bed, but it felt as cold and empty as a stranger’s.
The next morning, I booked a one–way ticket back to my hometown.
I sent my mom a text:
“Mom, I’m filing for divorce. Start looking for someone I can date.”
Her reply came instantly:
“Finally! I knew you’d leave that ungrateful jerk someday!”
“Don’t worry, honey. I’ll find you someone good. My network’s huge.”
