When the Perfect Trophy Wife Stops Playing Her Part

Harrison and I had a business marriage. I was my uncle's puppet; he was his mother's tool. My marriage was used to save a family business on the brink of bankruptcy, while his was used to secure an inheritance. He was my only option at the time. I wasn't his first choice, but he chose me. He said that among everyone, he'd spotted me at once—beautiful, resilient, with personality. Neither of us disappointed the other later on. He helped me take back the shares that were rightfully mine from my uncle, and I stood by him as he rose above all his father's unacknowledged sons, earning his father's trust to hand over the family legacy. Harrison's love was never stingy. Before we married, he spent a fortune on me. After we married, he spent even more. Maybe because his background wasn't recognized, he'd grown up poor. But he was extraordinarily generous with me. I thought that was love—that I'd easily gotten what he begrudged others. I thought I'd touched his true heart. But then, one ordinary afternoon, while I was playing golf with his client, he walked into the adjacent fairway with a young, pretty girl. I thought he'd avoid me. Instead, he put his arm around her and came over. He introduced me as his wife. The girl said breezily, "So you're Mrs. Vane. You're so lucky. Harrison is excellent in every way." The innuendo made me uncomfortable. When he came home that night, he reeked of that cheap perfume—from the girl. I looked up at him, waiting for an explanation. I thought that even if he said it was a moment of weakness, I would have forgiven him. High society is full of restraints. Just being able to lean on each other was rare enough; we didn't need to sweat the details. But instead he said, "We're a business marriage, right? You know how it is. We just need to keep up appearances. If you need to have some fun on the side, I don't mind." He almost broke my heart. Soon after, I couldn't find a better solution. But I understood: the heart I'd given him was something I had to take back. Still, feelings aren't like a faucet; you can't just turn them on and off. I drifted in that emotional whirlpool for a long time, wasting years. That night, Harrison didn't come home. Late, I got a call from him. On the other end came the girl's moans and Harrison's teasing. She asked him, "Who's better, me or your wife?" Harrison laughed. "Comparing yourself to my wife? That's a bit much. My wife is the queen of the social circle—everyone who sees her praises her beauty. If her parents hadn't died young, you wouldn't even be fit to share a man with her." The girl pretended to be upset: "Then get off me and go back to your socialite queen." Harrison soothed her at once: "Queen or not, even a queen gets boring after a while. No one's as alluring as you." The call lasted forty minutes, ending only when the girl couldn't take any more and hung up. As for me, I'd fallen asleep somewhere in the middle of it.

Harrison had been gone for ten straight days—standard for him. But this girl was clearly more restless than the rest. Every night, she called me from his phone. I listened to their live show more than once. Eventually, I just used it as white noise to fall asleep. I think she expected me to explode. But I honestly didn't have the time. Harrison had his new girlfriend to keep company; I had my business empire to defend. I'd been busy with a major client—Harrison's sister, Victoria. She'd lost the inheritance battle because of her gender and had been abroad for years. Now she was back with serious capital and looking for her first partner. That partner was me. After the first time Harrison publicly humiliated me, she asked why I was wasting myself in a marriage like this. My first answer was love. Because love was everything, I was willing to do so much for him—working the social circuit, giving my all in business, and abandoning my self-respect, pride, and dignity until I'd become insignificant in his life. Recently, Harrison's mind had clearly been elsewhere. Years of indulgence had hollowed him out. Ten straight nights of partying, so it made sense that when he showed up, he looked terrible. He pinned me against my office desk, demanding to know why I'd approved a new project without his consent. Because I didn't want irrelevant people involved in my projects, of course, and also because I was structuring assets for the divorce. I looked up at him and said nothing. That girl, Olivia, chose that moment to push the door open, twirling Harrison's key card in her hand. She'd swiped her way through our entire building. I could picture her strutting in. She smiled at me and said, "Mrs. Vane, did you like that sapphire from last time? Harrison was going to give it to me, but I thought it was too small, so I told him to give it to you instead. Been sleeping well lately? Like my little lullabies?" Harrison turned to look at her, his face unreadable. After a long pause, he said, "What kind of code are you two speaking?" I pulled out my phone and played the audio right in front of them. When their voices came through, Harrison's face changed. He spun around and said to the girl, "You sent her this? Are you insane?" Then to me: "And you record your calls?" I laughed. "I record all my calls. Isn't that what you taught me? Document everything with clients. Don't tell me you didn't know she was calling me. I don't believe she could take your phone every night without your permission." I stood up and met his gaze. "So were you trying to humiliate me? Or test me? Or both?" The suggestive audio was still playing. Harrison suddenly smiled. "Whatever you think it is. So what are you going to do now? You're not really thinking of divorcing me, are you? Alexandra, the cold shoulder doesn't work on me. Provocation does—but don't use the wrong method." What I really wanted to know was whether this relationship had ever been genuine, or if it had rotted away without me noticing. The reason I'd stayed so long in this quagmire was my lingering unwillingness to give up. But in that moment, I suddenly let go. He was just a bastard. And bastards don't have real hearts, do they? I smiled to myself. Harrison asked, "What are you smiling at?" I pulled a divorce agreement out of my drawer and laid it flat on the desk. "I'm smiling because today, whether it's cold shoulders or provocation, you're going to have to take your medicine." Harrison flew into a rage and stormed out of the office. At the door, he turned and said, "Alexandra, you've lost your bet. I'll divorce you."

If I'd heard those words before, I'd have been devastated—though I'd never let it show. Harrison was a master manipulator. I couldn't show any weakness, or he'd just pile on the pressure. I remember clearly that it was a Sunday, because my family always had dinner together on Sundays. The restaurant was already posted in the family group chat. My cousin was complaining that it clashed with her school reunion, and my uncle scolded her: "You're always the one with problems. Look at your cousin—she never misses a gathering." My cousin grumbled in the chat: "Of course she never misses. Her husband's always all over other women. She's got nothing but time." Ever since Harrison's scandals hit the headlines, I'd become fair game in that group. An orphan just seemed easier to pick on. In the end, it came down to me not being strong enough. My aunt jumped in: "What are you saying? Your brother-in-law is busy with work and social obligations. He used to come to our family dinners all the time, didn't he?" They were so ridiculous. They both feared Harrison and were constantly testing his attitude. I could even imagine how they'd treat me after a divorce—like a lamb to be slaughtered. To them, a grown woman's worth was limited and pitiable. My cousin, still unsatisfied, said: "Fine, I'll book the room next to ours for my reunion. Dad pays." My aunt immediately said: "Fine. If Dad won't, Mom will. Just don't be late. Grandma and Grandpa won't like it." She then tagged me: "Don't be late either. Your grandparents miss you. You haven't been home in a month." I sent a "thumbs up" emoji and hid the group chat again. There was too much hidden behind that fake warmth, and I didn't want to taste it all over again. That evening, I arrived at the private room. My uncle, aunt, grandparents were already there. They greeted me warmly, but every other word was about Harrison. Within five sentences, shares came up. A couple more, and it was about getting pregnant. I was disgusted inside but kept up appearances: "He's busy. Working on a merger. No plans yet. Maybe after this phase is over." After my parents died, my grandparents helped my uncle take most of the Whitmore family assets. I went from being the queen of the social circle to a dependent of my uncle's, watching the Whitmore name fade and the family decline. Suddenly, cheers erupted from the room next door. My aunt smiled indulgently: "Emily's having her reunion with her friends in there. We'll call her over later." Feeling stifled, I excused myself to the bathroom. Passing by the next room, I heard a familiar voice—the girl Harrison had been seeing recently. Her name was Olivia, and she was my cousin Emily's good friend. I heard her say smugly: "You might not get him as your brother-in-law, but as my boyfriend, he comes whenever I call." Her arrogance and confidence were a gift from Harrison. When I came out of the restroom, Harrison had already arrived. The girls were practically screaming with excitement, cheering and celebrating, saying they'd interrogate him. I was about to turn back to my room when I heard Emily ask him, "Brother-in-law, you're not really going to divorce my sister, are you?" Harrison laughed: "Even if I wanted to, your sister wouldn't agree. She's so into me. She wrote me so many love letters. Would she really let go?" I froze. My cousin's smug voice cut through: "Then you'd better thank me for stealing her diary for you. Otherwise, how would you know all that?"