My Husband Stole My Best Seller, So I Stole His Entire Life

My iCloud suddenly popped up a notification: "Five Years Ago Today." In the photo, Julian was carrying me on his back by the beach, laughing with pure, wild joy. The caption below read: "Even when we're old and grey, I'll still spoil you like my favorite little princess." I stared at the screen expressionless, then locked my phone and looked over at the man sitting on the living room sofa. The old refrigerator in the kitchen had a cracked pipe, and dirty water was leaking all over the floor. I was on my knees, wiping it up with a rag, when a sharp piece of rusted metal sliced deep into my palm. I gasped at the sudden, sharp pain. "Julian, the fridge is leaking really badly. Can you give me a hand?" His eyes remained glued to the TV screen, where he was intensely playing a console game. He didn’t even bother to look at me. "If it’s leaking, call a repairman. What do you want me to do about it? I come home from work just to hear you complain about this trivial crap every single day. Do you actively try to ruin my peace of mind?" I looked at the blood dripping from my fingertips onto the tiles. I didn’t argue. I didn’t scream. There was no physical cheating, no dramatic betrayal. It was just that seven years was too long. Long enough to turn the boy who once looked at me with pure devotion into a cold, dismissive stranger. "Can't you wipe up that blood on the floor? Once it gets into the grout, it’ll never come out." Julian finally glanced at me during a loading screen. I wrapped the rag tightly around my palm with one hand. The rust-stained cut stretched from the base of my index finger all the way to my wrist, throbbing with pain. The doorbell rang twice. "Get that," he ordered, firing another shot on screen. The delivery courier stood at the door, holding a box as tall as a person. When I scanned the QR code to sign for it, my eyes caught the price on the invoice—$1,200. The side of the box bore the logo of a high-end gaming brand. Last week, when I said the fridge needed fixing, he snapped, "It’s a hundred and fifty bucks, call someone yourself." He had emphasized "yourself," as if asking him to find a repairman was a personal insult to his existence. The moment I pushed the heavy box into the living room, he finally put down his controller. "Oh, it's here! Don't touch it—you've got blood all over your hands. If you ruin the leather, who’s going to pay for it?" He knelt on the floor, unboxing, screwing in parts, adjusting the armrests, and tilting the backrest. He examined every single piece with absolute care, comparing them to the manual. It took him forty minutes. I couldn't remember the last time I had seen that level of focus and care on his face. Once the chair was assembled, he sank into it, leaning back with a long, satisfied sigh. Then, his phone buzzed. The moment he picked up, his voice went up an octave, practically vibrating with excitement. "Marcus! Yeah! I saw the sales numbers last night—a million copies! Next Friday? The National Book Gala? An award? Are you serious? Yes, absolutely. I’ll buy a new suit tomorrow, and I’ll write the speech tonight—" He jumped up from the gaming chair and paced the living room, practically glowing. His smile was dazzling, almost blinding. He looked like a completely different person. But he was smiling at his phone, not at me. After hanging up, he finally looked at me. "Next Friday is the National Book Gala. *The Whispering Wind* just hit one million copies, and I’m getting the Emerging Writer Award. Double celebration." "Can I come with you?" His smile vanished faster than his game characters died. "Chloe, look in the mirror. The venue will be packed with publishers, critics, and media. What would you even wear? What would you talk about? You’d just stand there looking awkward like some useless prop." *Chloe*. Whenever he used my full name, it meant I had crossed a line. "Besides, I only have one guest pass. Lily from downstairs spent the last two weeks running my social media campaign for free. She’s a professional PR strategist. It’s only fair I give the ticket to her." "You gave your guest pass to another woman?" "She’s not just 'another woman.' She did my promo work for free. What about you? For the past six months, what have you done besides sit at home and hoard old scrap paper?" The living room lights were blindingly bright. He sat in his $1,200 gaming chair, the smell of new leather blending with the metallic tang of rust from the kitchen. My hand, wrapped in the bloody rag, hung limp at my side. The blood had already dried. "Fine. I won't go." He put his headset back on, shutting me out of his world instantly. The water in the kitchen was still seeping out. I shut the kitchen door and knelt beside the sink. I opened the cabinet beneath the pipes and reached into the very back, feeling a sealed manila envelope. I touched the seal. It was dry and untouched. I put it back. When I stood up, my knees popped. From the living room, I heard him laugh out loud. He must have won another round. My phone buzzed in my apron pocket. It was an unsaved number, containing only one sentence: *“Documents received.”* With damp fingers, I typed two words: *“Thank you.”* Then, I deleted the entire conversation history. As I walked through the living room, Julian pulled off one ear of his headphones. "Do you even understand the blurb on my acceptance speech draft? Never mind. Why do I even ask." I didn’t stop. "I'm going to find some Band-Aids.""What is going on with this floor? It’s wet like a fish market. Is this how you keep a home?" The next day was Saturday. My mother-in-law, Eleanor, showed up unannounced. Her high heels slipped on the wet floor, and she nearly fell. She stabilized herself by grabbing the shoe rack, her eyes sweeping over the living room before landing on the Band-Aid on my hand. I thought she was going to ask how I got hurt. "Look at your hands. Can’t you be more careful? It’s embarrassing. If Julian takes you out to meet people, showing hands like that is just disgraceful." "Eleanor, the fridge pipe burst. Last night I—" "If the fridge is broken, call someone. Don't play the victim with me. All you do is complain day in and day out." She tossed her designer handbag onto the sofa, inspecting the apartment like a building inspector. Julian walked out of the bedroom in his sweatpants, his hair messy from sleep. The moment he saw his mother, his spirit lifted. "Mom, you should have told me you were coming." "I had to check on you. Your wife doesn't do a thing around here. How can you live in a mess like this?" Julian yawned, giving me that familiar, dismissive look. When it came to taking sides, he never had to think twice. "Mom’s right, Chloe. Can’t you be more productive? I finally have some free time on the weekend, and I have to wake up to leaks and drama. It’s giving me a headache." "The leak is near the outlet. It's a fire hazard—" "Are you an electrician now?" Eleanor’s voice flared. "If you were actually capable of anything, would Julian have to support you? He works so hard to bring home the money, and you just sit here, eating his food, complaining about everything." Julian let out a small scoff, silently agreeing. He sat on the sofa, and Eleanor sat right next to him. Together, they looked like an impenetrable wall. I stood in the hallway, unable to step forward, unable to retreat. "Alright, let's drop it," Julian said, waving his hand at me. "Get us some water." I went into the kitchen. My hand hovered over the kettle for three seconds. Years ago, when he was thirsty, I would brew his favorite white peach oolong tea and serve it at exactly 130°F. He would gently touch my fingertips and whisper, *“Thank you, babe.”* Now, his "Get us some water" sounded exactly like he was ordering an Uber. I brought out two glasses of warm water. Eleanor took a sip, then got straight to the point. "Julian, you have a guest pass for the gala next week, right? Who are you taking?" "I gave it to Lily. She helped with my marketing campaign." Eleanor’s eyes lit up. "The sweet girl from downstairs? I ran into her the other day. She's so polite and put-together. Not like—" She stopped herself, swallowing the rest of the sentence. *Not like me.* She didn’t say it, but I filled in the blank. "She’s young and driven," Eleanor continued, finally giving me a glance. "Chloe, just keep the house clean. Don't go to the gala. You’ll only embarrass him." Julian nodded at me. "You heard her." The water was served. The words were said. In their conversation, there was no seat for me. I retreated to the bedroom and closed the door. I sat at my desk and opened my laptop. On the desktop was an encrypted folder containing dozens of scanned documents. Each page had a clear timestamp in the bottom-left corner—the earliest dating back to March, five years ago. I selected three files and dragged them into an email draft. I had typed the recipient's address so many times I could do it with my eyes closed. I hit send. The moment the progress bar hit 100%, Eleanor’s loud laughter echoed from the living room. "I always say, Chloe is so lucky to have married a provider like you. If she’s still not satisfied—" I shut my laptop. As the screen went black, it reflected a face with a cold, expressionless mouth. I stood up, took a box of fresh lemon tarts from the drawer—the ones Eleanor had praised last time—and walked out to place them on the coffee table. Julian took one and handed it to Eleanor. She took it with a smile, ignoring me completely. "Oh, Julian, in your acceptance speech, don't forget to thank your father. He’s looking down on you from heaven. And thank me, too. I've sacrificed so much for you." "Of course, Mom. Oh, should I thank Chloe too?" My hand froze in mid-air. Eleanor’s voice carried genuine confusion. "Thank her for what? She didn't write the book for you." Julian laughed. "True.""Next item on the agenda," the Condo Association manager announced, "the renewal of the lease for underground parking spot B-107—" Before the manager could finish, Julian raised his hand. "I'd like to speak on behalf of my wife for this spot. She doesn't drive much, so we want to transfer the lease to Lily Evans from unit 1702. She's a single mom, and it’s really hard for her to park so far away." I sat next to him, the Band-Aid on my palm peeling at the edges. B-107. My mother had given me $10,000 as part of my dowry to buy that lease. My signature was on the contract. I gently tugged his sleeve. "Julian, I have a use for that spot next month—" He violently yanked his arm back, so hard that an elderly man in the front row turned around to stare. "Chloe, can you stop being so selfish?" he hissed. "She's a single mother. How hard is it for you to walk a few extra steps when you stay at home all day? Do you have to act like this in front of everyone? Don't humiliate me!" His voice was loud. So loud that Lily, sitting across from us holding her toddler, flinched and shrank back. Her eyes welled with tears, and her voice sounded incredibly fragile. "Chloe, if you're not comfortable with it, it's fine. Really. I don't mind carrying my baby through the rain. I just... I don't want to cause any tension between you and Julian. I'd feel so guilty." The child blinked on cue. It was a flawless performance. A few neighbors began to whisper. "Seriously, the poor girl has it so hard. Why can't she just let her have the spot?" "Her husband makes so much money anyway." Julian stood tall, looking like a righteous hero. He was always like this in public—generous, noble, charitable. But I was the one who paid the bills. Looking at his face, I suddenly felt a massive distance between us, as if I were watching a stranger perform a terrible play. "Fine," I said. I stood up, my voice calmer than I expected. "The parking spot is yours. I'll handle the transfer. But from now on, you will cover the monthly maintenance and HOA fees. I wouldn't want Julian to have to pay extra for you." Lily froze, her mouth parting slightly, clearly not expecting me to agree so easily. Julian, however, gave me a rare look of approval. For seven years, I only deserved his gaze when I was obedient. When the meeting adjourned, he walked ahead while I lagged a few steps behind. We were the only two in the elevator. "You finally behaved like a proper wife today," he said, checking his phone, his tone like a manager giving a performance review. "If you were always this reasonable, I wouldn't have to be so hard on you." Back home, his good mood didn't even last thirty minutes. Because of the study. "Is this entire bookshelf filled with your junk?" he snapped, standing at the doorway of the study. "Yes." "Lily is bringing her kid over tomorrow. This room is packed to the brim; there's not even space for a stroller. Clear this out." I looked at the bookshelf. On the bottom shelf sat a stack of manila folders. Inside were the earliest handwritten drafts of *The Whispering Wind*. Every page was filled with my notes, corrections, and crossed-out paragraphs. Some corners were stained with coffee from years ago. Back then, we lived in a tiny 150-square-foot room. There was no heating in the winter, so he would wrap himself in a blanket and sit beside me, yawning and saying, *“Just edit one more line, then let's go to sleep.”* His signature was scribbled at the end of every chapter. That was the year he got incredibly sick, and his company put him on the layoff list. I told him, *“Submit the draft under your name. Since you’re still technically on their payroll, they won’t lay you off if you become a published author.”* He had cried in my arms half the night, swearing he would treat me like a queen for the rest of his life. Now, he swept the entire stack of drafts onto the floor with a brutal swipe of his hand. The papers scattered everywhere, like a black-and-white snowfall. "What is the point of hoarding this useless trash that nobody reads?" He stepped right over one of the pages, his shoe leaving a dirty print on the yellowed paper. "Learn from Lily. Do something useful for once instead of hiding in this room like a parasite." I knelt down. Papers everywhere. Every single page had been written between 3:00 AM and 4:00 AM. Chapter seven of volume three—the heroine mailing her final letter in the snow. I remembered him peeling an apple for me while I wrote that. I picked up only one page. In the bottom right corner was his signature from five years ago, written in shaky, uneven handwriting. The rest of the pages, I gathered in my arms and threw into the trash can, stack by stack. Julian watched me finish, his tone softening slightly. "There you go. It's much cleaner now." I closed the lid of the trash can. As the papers were pressed down, they made a soft, rustling sound. Like something taking its very last breath. I folded the signed page twice and slipped it into my pocket. "Julian." He turned at the door. "What?" "Nothing. I just realized... those old things really are useless now.""Is my tie straight? Come here and check." Three days later, Friday. Julian adjusted his tie for the fourth time in front of the mirror. He wore a dark navy designer suit with the publisher's badge pinned to his lapel. The outfit was brand new, costing $2,000. I leaned against the bedroom doorframe. He caught my reflection in the mirror and frowned. "Come cuff my sleeves. Keep your dirty hands off the fabric." I walked over and fastened his left cufflink. His wrist was thicker than it was seven years ago, his knuckles calloused from typing. "Clean up the study completely this afternoon. Lily is bringing her kid over. And don't worry about the fridge; I'll hire someone to fix it later." "So you're finally willing to spend that hundred and fifty bucks." His reflection in the mirror went cold. "What's that supposed to mean?" "Nothing." "Chloe, don't start with your passive-aggressive attitude today. The gala this afternoon is the biggest moment of my life. The entire industry is watching. Just stay home and don't embarrass me." The doorbell rang. He went to open it. Lily stood outside, wearing a white floral dress, her hair in a loose low ponytail, wearing a delicate pearl bracelet. "Julian, I'm ready. I made a few quick edits to your acceptance speech slides last night. Do you want to take a look?" "You're so thoughtful, Lily. Thank you so much!" Julian took her bag, his voice light and cheerful—a voice he never used with me. I stood at the entryway, watching them stand side by side. Lily smiled at me, a perfect, gentle smile, her chin lowered slightly, looking sweet and harmless. "Chloe, sorry to leave you with the housework. I’ll bring Julian back safe and sound." *Bring Julian back.* She said it so naturally, as if she had been doing it for a decade. Julian bent down to change his shoes. "Julian." He paused but didn't look up. "Today is the biggest day of your life." He tilted his head slightly, not understanding why I was saying this. "Make sure you're not late." He let out a cold snort, slammed the door, and left. Their footsteps faded down the hallway. I stood in the entryway, listening to the silence for three seconds. Then, I walked back to the bedroom and opened the very back of my closet. I pulled out a black blazer. I bought it when I graduated college and had barely worn it. I shook it out, then retrieved a hard-shell document folder from the bottom of the closet. Three items were inside. First—a stack of manuscript copies, each bearing a registered postmark from the post office in the bottom left corner. The earliest was dated March 11th, five years ago—exactly four months before *The Whispering Wind* was first published online. Second—a notarized certificate from the City Notary Public. Serial number, signatures, and red seal—all perfect. Third—a letter. Addressed with three bold letters: **WIPO**. An official arbitration acceptance letter from the World Intellectual Property Organization. I placed the folder into my bag, threw on my black blazer, and walked out. I didn't call an Uber. I took the subway four stops to the convention center. There was a long line at the entrance. I didn't have a guest pass. Instead, I held a temporary media pass—obtained three days ago through an old college classmate who worked at Julian's publishing house and knew the true origin of *The Whispering Wind*. The hall was massive. Julian stood under the bright lights of the main stage, looking sharp and victorious. The giant screen behind him displayed his name and a massive poster of *The Whispering Wind* celebrating its millionth sale. The hand-drawn cover art was something I had sketched on our tiny rental table at 4:00 AM years ago. Lily sat in the front row, hands folded on her lap, looking up at the stage with adoration. I sat down in the very last row. The ceremony began. The host delivered the opening remarks, and Julian stepped to the center of the stage to receive his golden trophy. The spotlight hit his face, and his smile was radiant—exactly like the boy who had promised me a better life seven years ago. Just as he opened his mouth to deliver his acceptance speech— The giant screen went black. The house lights dimmed for two seconds. When the screen lit up again, it was no longer the cover of *The Whispering Wind*. It was a formal document with a bold header. An official public notice from the Federal Copyright Office. The title read: **"Notice of Revocation of Attribution Rights for Julian Vance's 'The Whispering Wind' Series and Recovery of Unlawful Income."** The crowd fell into a dead silence. Then, whispers erupted like boiling water throughout the hall. The smile on Julian's face froze. He stared at the words on the screen, his lips trembling. Lily stood up abruptly in the front row, covering her mouth. I stood up from the back row. Holding the document folder against my chest, my footsteps sounded incredibly clear in the sudden quiet of the room. I walked from the very back row to the front. Then, I walked up the stairs to the stage. Julian turned and saw me. He saw me wearing my old blazer, my hair neatly tied back, my spine perfectly straight. For the first time in his life, I saw something new in his eyes. Terror. I stopped right in front of him. I pulled out the top page of the manuscript—the one with his shaky signature from five years ago. I took the microphone from the stand. Hundreds of eyes locked onto me. "Julian, do you recognize this handwriting?"