After six years of marriage, my wife Vivian Williams suddenly posted on social media: “Well, well—look who’s here. Sore loser still won’t admit it, wants a rematch?” The photo showed a young guy in a skull-print tee, pouting with a scowl, cross-legged in a gaming chair. That was Leo Miller, the new artist her company had just signed. I was staring at the screen in a daze when a mutual friend commented below: “Vivian! You forgot to switch accounts!” A few seconds later, Vivian’s post disappeared entirely. But not long after, the exact same post showed up on Leo’s Instagram. Vivian called me right away. In the past, I would’ve screenshotted it, marched over to confront her, and demanded answers. But this time, I just stared at my phone screen in silence, letting it ring until it stopped. When Vivian got home, I was curled up on the couch watching a movie. She tossed her car keys onto the entryway cabinet and bent down to change her shoes. “Why didn’t you answer when I called? You were home, right?” Vivian never used to question me like this—unless she was feeling guilty. I kept my eyes on the TV as I replied casually: “The movie was too good. Didn’t hear the phone.” “Work dinner ran late, so I’m home late. You don’t have to sit around waiting for me every night. No one’s impressed by this little act.” Before, I would’ve patiently explained it was just how I showed I cared. But today, I couldn’t even be bothered to say anything else. Vivian stood in front of me, tossing a luxury brand shopping bag my way. Today marked the premiere of her company’s big new drama series. To celebrate, I’d left work early like always, cooked a whole spread, and invited some mutual friends over to watch the premiere with her when she got home. But after four episodes, our friends had eaten dinner in awkward silence and left, and Vivian—who’d promised to be home early—still hadn’t shown up. I pretended not to notice the ten hours of straight gaming on her phone, took the paper bag, and set it casually on the carpet. I’d seen this bag before, not long ago—when she missed our anniversary. Same size, same style. Vivian stared down at me for a second, then frowned, her voice turning cold: “Jonathan, are you gonna keep moping around?” Buying gifts was Vivian’s go-to apology move. Once I accepted a gift, no matter what had happened before, she’d act like everything was fine. If I brought it up again, I was just “nagging.” Now that I wasn’t letting her off easy, she was clearly ticked off. “Here, let me open it for you.” Without waiting for a response, she ripped open the packaging, pulled out a brand-new handbag, and held it out to me: “The sales girl said this style is super hard to get—you’ll love it.” I looked up. Vivian followed my gaze to the bag I’d tossed on the couch earlier—the one I’d grabbed in my rush to make dinner. It was exactly like the one in her hand. The room went dead silent. “It’s getting late. You should get some sleep—you have work tomorrow.” I said flatly, standing up to head to the bedroom. “I’ll have my assistant take you tomorrow so you can pick out another one.” Vivian’s voice held a rare note of caution. “No thanks.” I refused without turning around. The next morning, maybe realizing she’d gone too far, Vivian uncharacteristically suggested we carpool to work. I hadn’t slept well, so I just nodded. She stood by her car, face tight with bottled-up irritation and impatience. I couldn’t remember when it started, but Vivian had begun making excuses not to let me ride with her. She treated that passenger seat like her personal space—wouldn’t even let me touch it—until I finally bought my own car. Every time I asked, she’d snap that I was being ridiculous, obsessing over “shotgun rights” like some internet weirdo, and that she didn’t have time for my petty jealousy. Now that seat clearly belonged to Leo. It was covered in race car models and stickers. The seat was custom-fitted to his body, and even the sun visor had been adjusted so he could fix his hair easier. Vivian glanced at me, sighed, then opened the door and carefully moved all his stuff to the back seat. Watching her, I frowned a little and said: “Don’t bother. I’ll drive myself.” Vivian kept tidying up the clutter: “I said we’d go together. Leo’s just a kid—he likes that stupid stuff. Don’t take it personally.” Even with the decorations gone, that custom seat still looked totally out of place in her car. In the end, I still didn’t get in Vivian’s car. No real reason—just this sick, twisted feeling in my gut.
I unlocked my car, but Vivian hurried over, opened the driver’s door first, and slid in. “I’ll drive. That way we’re still going to the office together.” I stood quiet outside the window, catching the flicker of guilt in her eyes. Guess even she knew decking out the passenger seat like that was over the top. Vivian paused, like she was trying to think of an excuse. Not wanting to hear it, I cut her off: “We’ll be late. Just drive.” She shut her mouth and started the car. Not even ten minutes into the drive, her phone rang—some loud electronic music blaring. Leo’s voice came through, breathless and whiny: “Vivian, my heart’s racing… We went street racing last night and now I feel dizzy. I think I’m gonna die! You gotta come… I need a doctor.” After hanging up, Vivian didn’t say a word—didn’t even look at me. She pulled over immediately, reached across, and unbuckled my seatbelt. Her voice was all business—sharp and to the point: “My client’s not feeling well. I have to go. The office isn’t far—you can walk from here.” I barely closed the door before Vivian hit the gas, peeling out into traffic and leaving a cloud of exhaust behind her. This was a tech campus—everyone drove. No one walked to work here. A scooter came around the corner, not expecting anyone on foot, and plowed right into me. I scraped up my forehead, palms, and knees pretty good. The clinic nurse cleaned me up, put on some waterproof bandages, and warned: “Take these off before showering tonight so the cuts can breathe. Keep them dry until they scab over.” On the Uber to the office, the driver had two phones going—one for navigation, the other streaming Leo live. The comments were blowing up with people worried about his health. “Thanks for all the love, guys! I’m doing way better now that Vivian showed up like my knight in shining armor. Having her here makes everything better.” “No, no, you guys—don’t get the wrong idea ~ Vivian’s just the best, she takes such good care of me.” While he babbled on, my phone pinged with two texts. “Jonathan, my assistant said you missed the morning project meeting? Where were you? Work comes first—do I really need to spell that out?” “I ask you to walk a few blocks and you throw a hissy fit? Seriously?” You could practically feel the eye-rolling through the screen. Sometimes I swear she must have a split personality. How else could she play favorites so hard? That evening, I changed my bandages in the bathroom mirror, then dragged my sore leg back to the couch to watch TV. The front door unlocked, and Vivian’s snarky voice cut through the room: “I thought maybe you’d finally gotten over that attitude problem, being so quiet lately. Turns out you were just saving up to cause bigger problems?” My silence must have ticked her off, because she marched over and yanked the TV plug out. “Jonathan, are you nuts?! This is an award-winning project—do you have any clue how much money we lose with a one-day delay?!” I didn’t move or say a word, just watched her freeze mid-rant. She squinted at the scab on my forehead and the bandages on my elbow and knee, then frowned: “What happened?” I met her eyes and said flatly: “Nothing major. Got hit by a scooter on the way to work.” Vivian blinked, then suddenly dropped the attitude and stepped closer to check my injuries. “You got hurt and didn’t even call me?” I pulled my hand away, voice light: “Just a scratch. I’m not dying. Besides, you were busy taking care of your client’s ‘health emergency’ at the time.” Some care comes too late. She could talk a big game, but every time I actually needed help, all I got was criticism. Vivian had stopped caring if I was okay a long time ago. After all that, if I still expected her to rush to my side, I really was an idiot. That comment hit a nerve. Vivian shot to her feet, sneering down at me: “Must you be so sarcastic, Jonathan? Asking you to walk a few blocks is a crime now? You’re 28, not 2! You got hit by a scooter while walking—are you really gonna play the victim here? I bet you did this on purpose to get back at me!” I stared at her meltdown, too exhausted to even roll my eyes. What was there left to say? One sentence and I’m getting accused of intentional injury. Too drained to fight, I tried to stand up to go to bed. When she saw me struggling, Vivian dialed back the attitude, sighed, and moved to help. “I’ll sleep in here tonight. Just yell if you need anything.” Vivian hadn’t been in our bedroom before 2 AM in months. Because Leo needed to stream every night to build his following. He claimed late-night streams got too many trolls, and he “couldn’t handle it alone” without someone watching his back. So Vivian locked herself in the home office every single night, glued to his stream. She’d send him virtual gifts to boost his visibility or jump on camera with him, making sure everyone knew Leo was her “priority talent.” I’d argued with her a hundred times—begged, pleaded, fought—but nothing changed. She said it was just work. Then threatened divorce when I pushed back. My throat tightened, but I gave in. I looked at her, not fighting the idea. But when she reached for me, I said quietly: “Vivian, let’s get divorced.”
That sentence hit harder than I expected. Vivian grabbed her keys and bolted, disappearing for a whole week. Classic move when she was mad. Clearly, she still wasn’t taking me seriously. Back in the day, her silent treatment would’ve sent me into a panic—no eating, no sleeping, terrified I’d lose her. I’d stay up all night calling, writing essays of apologies, promising to never upset her again—anything to get her back. Now? I was too busy updating my resume. Working at my ex-wife’s company post-divorce? Not a good look. Ten days later, as I was wrapping up work, Vivian called. For her, initiating contact was a big olive branch. Not accepting would be ungrateful—at least in her book. “We hit Q1 and Q2 targets. Admin’s throwing a celebration tonight. Let’s go together.” I waited downstairs for almost an hour before Vivian showed up—fashionably late, of course. The passenger window rolled down, and Leo—full makeup, perfectly styled—popped his head out, grinning: “I got bored with my wardrobe, so Vivian took me shopping. Hope you didn’t wait too long, Jonathan.” “Oh, and I get car sick super easily, so Vivian said I should ride up front. Cool with you?” Vivian’s knuckles were white on the wheel, eyes darting like she expected me to blow up. But I just opened the back door and got in. Who cared about the stupid front seat? Wasn’t worth the energy. Leo spent the whole ride flirting with Vivian and subtly showing off, but I just stared out the window, tuning it all out. Vivian, though, was weirdly quiet—jaw tight, not really engaging with Leo. She kept checking my reflection in the rearview mirror. When we got to the hotel, Vivian’s childhood friend Michael spotted us and jogged over, grin plastered on: “Jonathan! Been too long. Sorry I didn’t text you personally—work’s been crazy.” Michael was Vivian’s ride-or-die—knew all her business. He never invited me to plus-one events anymore. Because Vivian’s plus-one was Leo now, and if I showed up? I’d cause a scene. And that would embarrass her. I smiled politely: “No worries. Just here to make an appearance.” Michael froze. He glanced at Vivian, then just shrugged. Inside, Vivian worked the room with a drink, then found me holding a slice of cake. “Matcha cake. Thought you’d like it.” I used to love matcha cake in college. Not so much anymore. Before I could say no, Leo appeared with his phone out. Of course he was live streaming. “Hey guys! Look who I found!” “The guy next to her? Just a coworker. Vivian’s being nice, giving him cake. No big deal.” “Oh come on, don’t start that. Vivian and I are just friends~” I held up a hand to block the camera, then got up and left. I found a quiet spot on the outdoor balcony to get some air, but Vivian followed. She actually sounded nervous: “I’m sorry, Jonathan. I didn’t know Leo was streaming.” “Don’t pay attention to the chat. We just play it up for the stream—it’s not real.” “I told him to turn it off. It’s fine now.” I nodded. Whatever. I didn’t care either way. Back inside, the host was hyping up the crowd. I grabbed a drink, and when I turned around, Leo was there with champagne, clinking my glass. “Jonathan, my fans say Vivian and I have crazy chemistry. Who do you think she likes more?” I lifted my glass, deadpan: “Ask her. But right now? Probably you.” Leo laughed, like that was exactly what he wanted to hear, then leaned in and whispered: “Thought so!” Something felt off. I stepped back, but Leo moved faster—he stumbled backward and fell. Before I could react, someone shoved me hard. I tripped and crashed into the champagne tower. Glass exploded everywhere. My arm and back screamed in pain. My vision went fuzzy. I grabbed a table to steady myself. Through the chaos, I felt warm blood running down my back and arm. Vivian helped Leo up gently, then spun around and yelled at me in front of everyone: “Jonathan, are you gonna keep this up forever?! Do you need to see a therapist or something…?” She stopped mid-sentence, staring at the blood spreading across my arm and shirt. Her voice shook: “You… why are you bleeding so much? Where are you hurt?!”
Vivian ran over, yelling at the crowd: “Call 911! Now!” But Leo stopped someone from dialing, pulled Vivian aside, and pulled a bandage roll from his backpack: “Jonathan, you gotta be more careful. Here, press this on your cut.” Vivian froze. She looked at me, face going white: “Just take care of it. Stop making a scene.” So that was it. With Leo around, even the pretense of being a married couple was too much. I bit back the pain, stood up, and called my friend. Shawn picked up right away: “Jonathan? What’s wrong?” I closed my eyes, barely able to speak: “Shawn, I’m hurt. Need to go to the hospital.” Before I could finish, the room spun. Footsteps rushed over. Everything went black, and I fell into someone’s arms. When I woke up, the doctor said I had glass cuts on my arm that needed stitches and a bruised back that needed rest. Walking out of the exam room, Shawn was waiting with sunflowers: “Dude, you’re banged up like this and you still wanna divorce? You really over Vivian?” The numbing was wearing off, making me pale, but I managed a smile. After seeing who Vivian really was? I didn’t want the marriage, let alone anything else. Six years of marriage felt like one big joke now. “She did this to herself.” “Whatever you need, I’m in. Since you’re sure, our lawyer friend will hook you up. Right, Emma?” Emma Hayes, standing next to Shawn, nodded: “Absolutely. She won’t get more than she’s entitled to.” “I’ll draft the papers ASAP, but we should prep for court too.” I thanked her: “I really appreciate this, Emma.” For everything—tonight, the divorce, all of it. Emma knew what I meant and smiled: “Anytime.” I took a week of sick leave. Vivian never called. I didn’t either. After the incident, they’d reassigned my project, so my being out didn’t matter. When I went back to file paperwork, I ran into Leo in the hallway. He blocked my path, smirks all around, eyes daring me: “Heard you took sick leave. Back already? Thought you were hurt bad—shouldn’t you rest more?” I turned to him: “You did that on purpose?” So his little fall wasn’t just for show? He actually planned to make me trip? Leo acted shocked: “Was it that big a deal? Oops. My bad. I just slipped a little. Didn’t think you’d overreact…” Leo grabbed his cheek where I’d punched him, eyes blazing. Then his face changed—suddenly his eyes got all red and watery: “Vivian! I was just being nice and he hit me!” Vivian ran over, checked Leo’s face, then turned to me, totally fed up: “Jonathan, how long are you gonna keep this up?! Faking sick is one thing, but don’t act out at work! Take your drama elsewhere!” I saw Leo’s little victory smirk. He mouthed: “You can’t win. ” I stared at them, then walked away. No looking back. Trash belongs with trash. Hope they stay stuck together forever. I went home, made some soup, and crashed in bed. Being hurt made me tired. Slept till evening. Felt better, so I ordered a healthy dinner. Of course Vivian walked in with the delivery guy. I ignored her, set my plate, and ladled hot soup. Vivian went straight to the kitchen—old habit, grabbing milk to warm. She saw the food and paused. Put the milk back, voice soft for once: “Thanks for the soup. ” I moved her hand away, picked up my bowl, and sipped: “This is mine. Not for you. ” Her hand froze mid-air. Her face went dark. “Jonathan, you know I have a sensitive stomach. ” “Jonathan, you know perfectly well I have a sensitive stomach.” I took another sip, warm and good. “I know. ” “That’s why I used to cook every night after work—followed nutritionist recipes, made sure it was easy on your stomach. Hoped you’d feel better. ” But what did I get? ” You out with him. ” Me sitting there like an idiot, watching food get cold. ” Just like how I felt about you. ” Burned out. Frozen over. ” I kept eating. ” But that’s done. ” “You have Leo now. Let him handle your stomach. ” Vivian stared, jaw tight. Finally, she went to the kitchen and warmed her own milk. No words. ” After dinner, I went to the bedroom. Vivian was already showered, leaning against the headboard—no phone, just grinning like an idiot. She jumped up when I walked in, got close, and whispered in my ear: “Let’s go to bed early. ” I pushed her away. She came back, arms around my waist, voice way too soft: “We haven’t… in so long. What if we have a baby? Hm?” She tried to kiss me. I moved. She got mad, pushed me onto the bed, and started unbuttoning my pajamas. I slapped her. Vivian’s face flashed angry, but she held it in: “Jonathan, you’re my husband! What’s wrong with wanting a baby? Fine, be mad about Leo—but enough is enough!” I looked her in the eye. ” Vivian, I want a divorce. ” “If you want a baby, find someone else. I’m sure there’s a line. ” Vivian stared, like she couldn’t believe it. ” What did you say? Say that again, you—?!” “I want a divorce. ” Vivian just stood there. Then she laughed, bitter. ” You sure about this? ” I held her gaze. ” Absolutely. ” She got off the bed, got dressed. Smirking. ” “What new game is this? Some internet trend? Aren’t you tired of this act?” She slammed the bedroom door so hard the walls shook.
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