### After seven years of marriage, I stumbled upon two letters my husband had written to his first love. One was a love letter. The other was a will. “In our next life, I’ll make you my wife.” “My inheritance will go to you. Even after I’m gone, I won’t let anyone hurt you.” It turns out, I’ve been the fool all along. I didn’t want to stand in the way of their true love, so I booked a plane ticket that very night. The next morning, I ironed his shirt for the last time and saw him off to work. At the door, he hesitated, waiting for the goodbye kiss I didn’t give him. “Anna, don’t be mad. The lipstick on my collar last night—it’s not what you think.” “It was just a friend. I was just giving her a ride home. Don’t overthink it.” I didn’t cry. I didn’t yell. I simply said, “Oh, I don’t mind.” Because I’d already lined up a date with someone else. I was ready to move on. But that’s when he started to panic. As I watched Oliver step out the door, he lingered in the entryway, hesitating, as though he were waiting for something. I kept my tone neutral, indifferent. “You’ve got your briefcase, your watch… what else are you waiting for?” His jaw tightened, and his brows furrowed in restrained irritation. He said nothing, but I knew. Seven years of marriage, plus the three years I spent chasing him before that—ten years of knowing this man inside and out. I could read him like an open book. He wanted a goodbye kiss. Because I hadn’t leaned in like I usually did, hadn’t whispered “I love you” with a peck on the cheek, he could sense something was off. “Anna, are you still mad? Be reasonable,” he said, his voice calm but laced with subtle condescension. “The lipstick stain was a misunderstanding.” “That woman wasn’t feeling well. I gave her a ride home, and the mark must’ve gotten there somehow. It’s not what you think.” “I explained this to you all night. You’ve got all the facts—can’t you be logical about it?” Oliver was a lawyer, and his words were always sharp, polished, airtight. Even the prenuptial agreement he wrote for us had been meticulously fair—no bias, no loopholes. Last night, I had screamed and cried over his suit jacket, the one I had ironed so carefully that morning. My fingers still bore the small burns from pressing out every wrinkle. But by the time he brought it back, it smelled of someone else’s perfume and bore a faint, familiar lipstick stain. The color and scent were unmistakable: his first love’s signature shade. When we first started dating, Oliver used to buy me that same brand of lipstick and perfume. I thought it was sweet, a sign of his thoughtfulness. Even though I didn’t like the scent, I wore it for him. It wasn’t until later that I realized the gifts weren’t for me at all—they were hand-me-downs, tokens meant for someone else. At the door, he tried again. “Do you believe me now? Can we move past this?” I glanced at my empty hand, my ring finger bare. I had taken off my wedding band last night. There was still an angry red mark where it had pressed into my skin for years. Would he notice? Would he care? If he said something—anything—to try to hold onto me, maybe I’d soften. Maybe I’d forgive him one more time. But Oliver didn’t even glance at my hand. He was already slipping on his shoes, ready to leave for work. “Oh, and I’d like fish for dinner tonight,” he added casually, as though I were his personal assistant. I watched his perfectly tailored suit disappear into the elevator. My heart sank a little deeper.
The letters were hidden in plain sight, wedged between the pages of a romance novel on the bookshelf. Oliver had always banned me from entering his home office, and for seven years, I’d respected that boundary. But the day before, he’d forgotten an important document and, in a hurry, had given me the door code: “716523.” 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. 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.”
Before I even met Oliver, I knew he had a first love. They were once engaged, but she walked away after his parents disapproved. Angry and hurt, she refused his proposal. But the wedding venue had already been booked, the officiant scheduled. Oliver, ever the prideful man, wasn’t about to let himself look like a fool. So, he turned to me. “Anna, would you give this a shot with me?” His voice was steady, confident. He didn’t even bother to kneel—just stood there, looking down at me, as if he already knew my answer. And of course, he did. I had been chasing him for three years. There was no way I would say no. That day, I dropped my overseas work assignment, slipped into a wedding dress, and we eloped. Everyone around me congratulated me, saying I had finally “won” Oliver, the golden boy. And for a while, I believed it. Oliver was everything I thought I wanted—handsome, successful, with a family name that opened doors. Within a few years, his law firm had expanded all across Chicago, and when we went out, people called me “Mrs. Carter” with admiration. That day, I was over the moon. I stood in the parking lot, holding a positive pregnancy test, waiting for him to arrive. His career was steady now, and a baby would be the perfect cherry on top. When his car finally pulled into the lot, I ran toward it, grinning ear to ear. “Oliver, you’re going to be a dad!” I said, knocking on the window, my face nearly pressed to the glass. But Oliver didn’t roll down the window right away. When he finally did, the faint scent of perfume hit me. A familiar scent. And then I saw her. Luna, his first love, sat in the passenger seat, her lipstick smeared and her eyes red from crying. “I’m so sorry, Anna,” Luna said softly, her voice trembling. “I kissed Oliver. I’ve just been so emotional since my breakup… I lost control.” She turned to look at me, her face full of fake remorse, but her lips curled into the faintest smirk. “Don’t be mad, okay?” she added sweetly, her tone dripping with mockery. Behind her words, her eyes glittered with triumph as she raised her hand in a subtle, taunting gesture only I could see. My hands shook as I gripped the pregnancy test. Without thinking, I threw it at her, my voice trembling with rage. “Get out of the car—now! Who raised you to be this shameless?” But before Luna could respond, Oliver’s hand shot out, striking me hard across the face. The slap rang in my ears, sharp and deafening. My earring, a gift from him, tore from my ear, leaving a searing pain and a trickle of blood. Stunned, I stumbled to the ground, clutching my face as waves of pain radiated from my stomach. “Anna,” Oliver said, his tone cold, “you’re out of line. You know Luna grew up without a father. How could you be so cruel to her?” His words cut deeper than the slap. “Oliver,” I whimpered, clutching my stomach, “I think something’s wrong. Please, take me to the hospital. I’m pregnant.” For a moment, he hesitated, his eyes flickering with something that almost looked like concern. But then Luna let out a soft, pitiful moan. “Oliver,” she whispered, holding her head dramatically, “my head… it hurts so much. But you should take Anna first—she’s pregnant, after all.” Her voice was sweet, but her eyes gleamed with satisfaction as she leaned back in her seat. Oliver immediately turned his attention to her, his expression full of worry. He reached out to wipe the nonexistent tears from her face before starting the car. “Anna,” he said sharply, glancing at me through the rearview mirror, “your behavior today was unacceptable. If Luna ends up hurt, I’ll have no choice but to press charges for assault.” The man who had won every case he’d ever taken—my husband—was now threatening to sue me. For his first love. “Oliver,” I whispered, tears streaming down my face, “I’m carrying your child.” He didn’t even look at me. “Being pregnant doesn’t give you a free pass to act like this,” he said coldly. “Stop being so dramatic.” As the car sped away, leaving me crumpled on the pavement, I clutched my stomach and prayed for the tiny life inside me. I lost the baby. Oliver stayed with me for a month after the miscarriage. He fed me, stayed by my bedside, even helped me bathe. For a moment, I thought he might have changed. Friends and family urged me to forgive him. “All men make mistakes,” they said. “At least he’s trying now.” In the end, I softened. Oliver wrote me a letter of apology, promising he’d never hurt me again. “Anna,” he said, “I’m a traditional man. I only have room in my heart for one wife, and that’s you.” He swore Luna was just a friend. And like a fool, I believed him.
When I got the call about Oliver getting into a fight, I was taking out the last bag of trash. All our photos together? Gone. The matching outfits I once begged him to wear? Tossed. The handmade forever roses I carefully preserved? Now just fragile junk at the bottom of the trash can. It’s funny how things I once thought were precious now seem like nothing more than useless, flimsy clutter. The matching outfits I bought for us were always beneath him. He said they made him look “ridiculous.” But tucked away in the back of the closet was a matching pair of watches—the men’s version his, the women’s version I’d once seen his ex wearing. “Anna! Come quick! Oliver’s in the parking lot fighting someone!” “What?” I asked, my voice calm, scissors in hand, snipping away at the lucky bamboo I had nurtured for seven years—planted after I prayed for his success at the “most spiritual” temple in the city. “He’s bleeding from his forehead! His hand’s all messed up!” This was shocking. Oliver, the ever-composed attorney, never lost his temper. Even when someone cut him off in traffic, he’d quietly jot down their license plate and report them later, rather than dirty his hands. He was the epitome of calm and control. When I got into a car accident years ago, he handled everything without so much as a flinch. I’d once fallen in love with that steady, logical side of him. But now, I hated it. Because he could lose control for another woman, but he was always too rational with me. “Who’s the fight about?” I asked, my tone sharp, cutting straight to the point.
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