How I Paid for My Divorce

The young foreign woman my husband had been supporting financially showed up at my doorstep, demanding I divorce him.

"Zoey, I'm the one who can give Tyler what he truly needs. Just let him go," Jessica urged, her voice dripping with false sympathy.

I stood frozen, clutching the photos she'd shoved into my hands—grainy shots of them tangled together in his car, in our bed, their intimacy undeniable.

She lingered in the doorway, her eyes sweeping over the anniversary dinner I'd spent hours preparing. A smug smile played on her lips.

"Thanks for funding my education, Zoey," she said, her tone laced with quiet mockery. "But love isn't about money. Don't use your generosity to chain us to something that doesn't exist."

She paused, then delivered the final blow. "Oh, and today marks 400 days with Tyler. He booked a hotel to celebrate. Don't bother waiting up."

With that, she turned on her heel and left, her confidence radiating like a victory march.

The moment the door clicked shut, my phone buzzed.

Tyler's voice, detached and hollow, came through.

"Hey Zoey, big client meeting. Might not make it back tonight. Get some rest."

The call ended before I could even process the lie.

I stood there, the weight of his betrayal pressing down on me.

What now?

Mechanically, I walked back to the table, poured a glass of red wine, and took a slow sip, the warmth doing nothing to thaw the ice in my chest. My gaze landed on the cake—Happy 10th Anniversary—the words now a cruel joke.

Tears blurred my vision as I cut a small piece, the sweetness clashing with the salt of my tears.

So this is what a decade of love tastes like.

Bitter. Hollow.

Then I saw it—the pregnancy test Jessica had left behind.

Two weeks pregnant.

My fingers trembled as I pressed them against my own flat stomach, the emptiness there suffocating.

Barren. Useless.

By the time Tyler finally stumbled in, I was drunk, slumped against the couch, my vision swimming.

He rushed to me, guilt etched across his face, but the stench of another woman's perfume clung to him. When he reached for me, the smell hit me like a punch, and I retched, vomiting all over him.

He didn't even react. Just wiped my face with a towel, his touch gentle—just like that night ten years ago, when his family's empire crumbled, and I married him out of desperation.

I'd cried and thrown up on him then, too.

History repeats itself.

With a bitter laugh, I shoved the pregnancy test into his hands. "Tell me this is fake, Tyler. Tell me Jessica's lying."

His jaw tightened. After a long silence, he finally spoke, voice thick with regret.

"Zoey, I'm sorry. I never meant for this to happen."

I scoffed. "Then send her back to Harrington. End this."

He flinched. "I can't."