My wife and I are both liars. She lied to me ninety-nine times, saying she’d forget her first love, but she never did. And I only lied to her once—tricking her into signing the divorce papers. Today is the last day of our divorce waiting period. Three hours left on the countdown, I packed all my belongings and bought a plane ticket out of the country. Two hours left, I cut up all our photos together, leaving only myself in the albums. One hour remaining, I recorded one final video for her. “Clara, this is my tenth year loving you, and my first day leaving you.” Later, when she saw the recording, she lost her mind. “Why is the wedding contract so thick?” Clara frowned, flipping through page after page, yet never putting pen to paper. After all, she was a renowned CEO in this city—not someone easily deceived. And on the second-to-last page was the divorce agreement I’d secretly inserted. I kept my head down, feeling surprisingly calm. “There are a bunch of liability clauses. If you have time, take your time reading through it.” She wouldn’t have time. Today was the day her first love, Adrian Cross, returned to the country. Years ago, when Adrian got engaged, she married me in a fit of spite. Now that Adrian was divorced, she got drunk and, after sobering up, asked me to hold a proper wedding ceremony. It was all just to provoke Adrian into coming back. My marriage was nothing more than a game piece in their emotional chess match. Sure enough. The impatience on Clara’s face was visible to the naked eye. “I need to leave now to pick someone up. I don’t have time for all this.” A flicker of joy crossed her eyes. The impatience was for me. That flash of joy was reserved only for Adrian Cross. After hastily signing, Clara left me nothing but her retreating back. Three days ago, Clara suddenly brought up holding a proper wedding. We’d been married five years without a grand ceremony or any public announcement. Apart from both sets of parents and our closest friends, no one knew. Even in news coverage about her, she was always listed as “unmarried.” The occasional tabloid stories were all about her tragic romance with Adrian Cross. As for me, her actual secret husband, I had no right to have my name mentioned. Truth is, I’ve known all along. Clara had a first love, a man she loved desperately. Five years of marriage, and the woman showed me some tenderness, just not much. I tried to use love to make her get used to having me around. But in our home, Clara’s face never showed a single smile. Until that day when Clara—who never touched alcohol—got completely wasted, her face covered in nothing but smiles. I quietly asked around and, sure enough, Adrian Cross had gotten divorced. I took care of her until midnight, then unlocked her phone using Adrian’s birthday. Opening her photo album, the pictures nearly filled her storage. Nothing but Adrian. Not a single photo of me. The cover of her digital album was our wedding photo. Except she’d photoshopped my face out and replaced it with Adrian’s. I still remember how, on the day we registered our marriage, Clara refused to hold a wedding but insisted on taking wedding photos. Now I understood why. It was at that moment I knew. This five-year marriage was coming to an end. All that remained was the divorce cooling-off period. Countdown. One month. Coincidentally, the wedding Clara promised to hold with me also had one month left.
Countdown: 20 days. Clara came and went even more frequently than before. The wedding she’d promised seemed to have never existed. Occasionally I’d see her best friend’s social media posts, and in the corners of photos, there’d always be her walking arm-in-arm with a man. That face—I’d seen it in her phone’s photo album. This day, my business partner stopped me. “Bring the design drafts later. We’re going to sign a contract with the client.” “I heard this client is none other than CEO Clara’s rumored lover.” I nodded, a bit distracted. Though he was my partner, he didn’t know I knew Clara. Much less that Clara and I were secretly married. The client’s office was located in the building right below Clara’s company. I knew this was the new company Adrian had established after returning to the country, funded by investments from Clara’s corporation. Recently, financial news had been buzzing with speculation about their past romance. Entering the CEO’s office, unsurprisingly, I saw Clara. She was holding an elegantly wrapped box, handing it to the man in the executive chair. Adrian Cross. Clara’s expression froze the instant she saw me. Everyone present sensed something was off. Adrian looked at me with a hint of amusement. “And you are?” Clara fell silent, seemingly weighing how to explain. I smiled and introduced myself to everyone. “My name is Mason Young, the designer for this project. Ms. Parker and I are…” Clara and I spoke in unison: “College classmates.” As soon as the words left our mouths, my hand gripping the design drafts turned white. My fingertips left creases in the paper. This wasn’t the first time I’d covered for Clara, nor was it the first time Clara didn’t want to reveal my identity. This so-called secret marriage hid our relationship. But it made crystal clear the ending we were always destined for. The business discussion that followed was unpleasant. Clara resumed her role as a business elite, representing Adrian and being aggressive during negotiations. “Drop the price another ten percent.” Clara pushed our profit margin and bottom line to the absolute limit. My partner hesitated for a moment, then agreed through gritted teeth. “Fine. Ms. Parker, your reputation precedes you—you’ve guessed our bottom line perfectly.” Clara turned her head, too guilty to look at me. This woman was indeed as ruthless as the legends said. Only now, she was using it against me, her legitimate husband. Adrian hadn’t said a word the whole time, just looked at me with slight provocation. Then he reached out to unwrap the box on the table. “Everyone, have some cake.” Unexpectedly, Clara, who’d remained calm throughout the negotiation, anxiously grabbed it away. “Adrian, don’t touch it—you’re allergic to peanut butter. Let me check first.” The scene before me transformed into sharp blades in that moment. Cutting me to bloody pieces. Five years of marriage, and this woman had forgotten our anniversary, gotten my birthday wrong. Even every single thing I’d reminded her about, she’d carelessly tossed aside. But she always remembered that I was allergic to peanut butter. I’d secretly felt pleased—maybe all the other details revealed the truth that she didn’t love me. But this one detail showed she cared about me, even if just a little. Turns out… Even that tiny bit of care was fake.
The project progressed quickly. But Clara thought it was too slow. More than once, this woman emphasized to my partner: “This is Adrian’s first project since returning to the country. I don’t want it to fail.” I watched this performance with cold detachment. That day after the negotiation ended, back home, Clara hesitated on the sofa for a long time. Finally, she explained to me: “We’re still secretly married after all. We haven’t found the right time to explain.” “Later, we’ll go public.” “Right now, our priority should be handling this project well.” I nodded noncommittally. I didn’t bother reminding her that the priority should probably be our upcoming wedding. Even less would I remind her that when that day came, the divorce cooling-off period would be over. After all, in her eyes, Adrian was still the most important. During the project, Clara’s deliberate efforts to avoid having Adrian and me meet still caught my partner’s attention. He asked me somewhat nosily: “Did you and Ms. Parker used to have a thing?” I smiled. “How could that be possible?” My partner pursed his lips. “She’s looked at you with this incredibly guilty expression several times.” “Clearly the way a woman harboring guilt looks at her ex-boyfriend.” I paused, trying to recall carefully. It wasn’t that I hadn’t noticed—it’s just that everything from the past made it impossible for me to be sure about her expression. Countdown: 10 days. This day was supposed to be a regular project meeting. Adrian intentionally or unintentionally chatted with me for quite a while. I knew he’d probably guessed my relationship with Clara. But I still replied to him politely. After the meeting ended, Clara actually offered to drive me home. This was a first. “Your work capabilities really exceed my expectations.” Five years of marriage, and this was the first time this woman praised me. My hand paused while organizing documents, looking at her with some confusion. Clara hesitated for a long time before finally speaking: “Is it too late for the wedding ceremony?” I lowered my head, knowing she probably wanted to cancel the wedding. Most likely because of Adrian. “Then let’s just cancel it. There aren’t many days left anyway.” I looked up at her, not calling her out, not wanting to make things awkward for both of us. Clara looked stunned, as if she’d received an answer she couldn’t believe. She suddenly asked: “You don’t care?” Right—in the past, I probably would’ve lost control on the spot, demanding an answer. How many times had awkwardness occurred in our marriage because of my loss of control? Though all those losses of control stemmed from her. I shook my head. “What’s there to care about? It’s just a ceremony.” After a long silence, Clara spoke up again: “How about in a few days, I’ll go with you to relax at the old town nearby?” I looked down at the countdown on my phone—only ten days left in the divorce cooling-off period—and declined. The woman’s hands on the steering wheel stiffened, nearly running a red light. “How about the beach? Or that restaurant you’ve always wanted to try?” Clara suggested several more ways to relax, but I declined them one by one. By the time we got out of the car, the woman’s expression had changed from embarrassment and guilt to confusion and dissatisfaction. Seeing her expression, I took the initiative: “How about we go see the old house?” The old house was where Clara and I lived when we first got married. I really did miss it a bit. Clara froze for a long while, seemingly trying to figure out what I was thinking. Even after I got out of the car, she was still sitting there. Sitting in a daze for a long time.
Divorce cooling-off period countdown: 1 day. Perhaps we’d formed some kind of tacit understanding—Clara and I rarely appeared together at project meetings anymore. But sometimes, when Adrian wasn’t around, Clara would suddenly come downstairs. At project meetings, she wouldn’t speak, just occasionally glance at me. I didn’t really understand what this woman was thinking lately, and I didn’t want to. I started moving things out bit by bit, trying not to let her notice. But she still found out. This day, after a meeting, Clara proactively invited me to sit in her office for a while. As soon as I sat down, she asked: “You’ve been moving a lot of stuff out lately? And I haven’t seen you come home either.” I nodded, using an excuse I’d prepared long ago. “Yeah, going to stay at the old house for a while.” Clara’s expression showed hesitation: “About the wedding, I’ve thought about it for a long time, and we can still hold it…” I interrupted her: “There’s hardly any time left. No need.” Her expression showed surprise: “What do you mean, ‘hardly any time left’?” I hesitated, wondering whether to show her the divorce agreement we’d already signed. Adrian’s phone call came at just the right time, helping me out. I looked at the name on her phone and smiled: “You go ahead and take care of business. We’re not in a rush to talk.” Clara turned the door handle, and to express her apology, turned back to reaffirm a promise: “I’ll definitely come find you at the old house tomorrow.” The next day, she broke her promise again. I sat on the sofa in the old house, looking down at my phone. Countdown: 12 hours. A local news notification popped up on my news app. Adrian was making an appearance at a new project, with Clara standing behind him. Recalling the promise the woman made yesterday, I couldn’t help but laugh bitterly. If she knew these were the last twelve hours with me, would she still break her promise? Maybe not. Maybe she still would. But the answer no longer mattered. I spent several hours tidying up the house. In the empty old house, there really wasn’t much that belonged to me. It’s just that we got married here, and I was still nostalgic. I called my partner. Since I’d already told him beforehand, I still said goodbye to him. Then I dialed the lawyer: “The divorce agreement was notarized a month ago. I don’t need to go through additional procedures now, right?” The lawyer’s answer was concise: “No need.” After a pause, his congratulations came through: “Congratulations, Mr. Young.” I smiled and hung up. I just quietly waited until evening. Three hours on the countdown, I packed all my belongings and bought a ticket for the next day. Two hours left, I cut up all our photos together, leaving only myself in the albums. One hour remaining, I arranged the divorce agreement neatly and placed it on the table. I originally wanted to leave some words, but decided against it. I could only say silently in my heart: “This is the last time I’ll call you that.” “I loved you for ten years. Loving someone for ten years is very difficult, but I’ve finally chosen to give up.” “Congratulations to you, and congratulations to me.” Carrying my luggage, the instant the countdown ended, I placed my hand on the door handle. It was over. My marriage. Unexpectedly, the door opened from outside. Clara had sweat on her forehead, clearly having just exercised. She was panting, the smile on her face tinged with guilt: “I’m sorry, Mason. I just finished seeing someone off…” Her tone faltered, her gaze landing on my luggage and the plane ticket in my hand. “Where are you going?”
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