After My Husband's Fake Marriage With His Secretary, I Left Him

On our fifth wedding anniversary, my husband told me he wanted to have a fake wedding with his secretary.

But after overhearing his conversation with a friend, I realized everything was a carefully crafted lie.

"Yves, haven't you had enough sneaking around with Shontelle for the past five years? And now you want to actually marry her?"

Yves downed a glass of red wine in one gulp, his cheeks slightly flushed, and a reckless smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

"It's only a fake wedding, but my feelings for her are real. Besides, Shontelle's mother has a terminal illness. Her only wish is to see her daughter get married, and I intend to make that happen."

I stood frozen outside the door, holding my breath. But his next words shattered me completely.

"As for Marichelle... I have to maintain that marriage. Do you know how much property I'd lose in a divorce? Besides, she can keep earning money to support me and Shontelle's child."

His friend chuckled knowingly, patting his shoulder in approval.

"Everyone knows Marichelle is madly in love with you. She nearly severed ties with her family just to marry you. Even if you divorce her, I'm sure she'll cling to you desperately."

The room went silent for a beat, then erupted in mocking laughter—as if already picturing me pathetically begging him not to leave.

Through the crack of the door, I caught a glimpse of Yves' smug, selfsatisfied smile.

I didn’t bother listening anymore. There was no point.

Clenching my fist, I dialed my Dad.

"Dad, I want a divorce. You were right—Allen is the one truly suited for me."

On the other end came a long, relieved sigh.

"My good daughter, you finally understand. I'll come pick you up in a week."

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I whispered mentally, 'Yves, to me now, you are nothing more than a pitiful, pathetic man.'

When Yves stumbled home at one in the morning, he was already calling out my name.

"Mari! Marichelle..."

From the entryway to the living room, his voice sounded anxious—because unlike always, I wasn't waiting on the sofa for him no matter how late it was.

I was already asleep, unwilling to waste another shred of emotion on a man who would soon be my exhusband.

"You're sleeping? Without waiting for me?" He sounded incredulous when he saw me in bed.

And when I didn't respond, he stormed over and yanked me upright.

"Marichelle! How could you go to bed without me? You've never done that before!" He shook my shoulders until the last trace of drowsiness was gone.

So he had noticed that I always stayed up late for him. Yet not once did he ever tell me to rest early, never once cared about my exhaustion. Now, just because I broke the routine once, he dared to shake me awake and demand an explanation.

How had I been so blind to his cold, selfish heart?

"Are you done?" I looked at him blankly.

"What?" He frowned.

"If you're done, I'd like to go back to sleep. The doctor says I'm a light sleeper. Starting today, we'll sleep in separate rooms."

Without waiting for his reaction, I lay back down, ignoring the ugly expression on his face.

Perhaps it was my mention of separate rooms, or maybe it was the realization that I was no longer soft, patient, and endlessly forgiving—either way, Yves grew restless.

"Mari, are you angry with me? I know I came home late, but you know I had to work overtime. It's normal to finish around one or two. You're my wife—you should understand how hard I work!"

I let out a cold laugh under the covers.

"Marichelle?"

"I do understand. That's why I'm asking you to leave." I turned away from him, my back a clear rejection.

He finally gave up trying to talk to me, muttering one last line before leaving the room.

"You must be tired and not thinking straight. I hope tomorrow you'll be back to normal."

I got up early, slipping out of the house before Yves even woke up.

Partly because I didn't want to see him, but mostly because I had preparations to make. A man who betrays his marriage must pay the price!

On the way to the law firm, my phone buzzed. Yves' name flashed on the screen.

The moment I answered, his voice roared so loudly I nearly dropped the phone.

"Where did you go so early? Couldn't even say goodbye?"

"I didn't want to disturb your sleep," I replied casually, feeding him a flimsy excuse. Without solid evidence in hand, I couldn't afford to expose what I knew just yet.

Sure enough, my answer pacified him. His tone eased almost instantly.

"When are you coming back? You haven't made me breakfast."

Tch. How laughable.

He could notice there was no breakfast waiting, yet never once did he care whether I had eaten before leaving.

Yves had always loved one person—only himself.

"I didn't eat either. Buy something for yourself. I'm hanging up." I couldn't be bothered to entertain him further.

"Hey—last night you didn't wait for me, and now you can't even make breakfast? You used to—" He stopped short, but I knew exactly what he was about to say.

I used to wake up early every morning, preparing his breakfast. If he was running late, I'd pack it neatly for him to take along—dutiful, meticulous, like some livein maid.

He took all of it for granted. And the moment I stopped, suddenly I was the one in the wrong.

"Yves, you have hands and feet. Do it yourself. I am not your maid."

I ended the call without waiting for a response.

Half a minute later, a text came through.

[Marichelle, I've never treated you like a maid. I love you. You'll always be my wife.]

[By the way, I'll be on a business trip to California next week. Send the first row of clothes from my closet to the dry cleaner, and buy me a new white suit—the finest quality.]

California...

It was Shontelle's hometown.

So, he wanted me to personally prepare the groom's suit he'd wear to marry her.

Later that morning, I was jolted awake by noise from the living room. At first, I ignored it, but after over an hour of racket, I had no choice.

When I finally emerged, I nearly laughed out loud.

The sleek blackandwhite modern style of our living room vanished overnight. In its place, colorful flowers and white drapes flowing across every corner, the furniture replaced with bright, festive pieces. The room no longer felt like a home—it resembled a wedding hall.

And there he stood—Yves—dressed in a pristine white suit, clutching a bouquet, rehearsing poses as if he were the star of some romantic photo shoot. Ridiculous, and yet he wore such a serious expression.

The moment he spotted me, he straightened up and feigned calmness.

"Oh, you're home. This is just for work. I hired some people to take pictures here. It'll be done soon. Why don't you head out—shopping, a walk, whatever. I'll call when it's over."

He hadn't even realized I was in the house. If he'd bothered to check the shoe rack, he would have known. But no—he'd rather order me to disappear for a day just to indulge his whims.

"You can shoot your photos. I won't—"

I didn't get to finish. The guest room door swung open, and Shontelle stepped out in a haute couture wedding gown, cheeks blushing as she twirled shyly.

"Yves, does this dress look good on me? I still feel the first one you picked at the bridal shop looked better... Ah—"

Her words faltered when she finally noticed me standing there.

"MMarichelle..."

The moment Shontelle noticed me standing there, panic flashed across her face.

Her eyes welled with tears as she stammered, "MMr. Perez, didn't you say Miss Marichelle wasn't home? That's the only reason I dared to come... What if she misunderstands? What should I do?"

And just like that, before I even opened my mouth, she had flipped the situation—casting herself as the victim.

As expected, Yves' gaze immediately softened with concern for her. If not for my presence, he probably would've pulled her into his arms right then and there.

"Marichelle, don't give Shontelle that look. This was my idea. Her family has been pressuring her to get married, so I agreed to pose as her boyfriend for some photos to send them. That way, they'll feel reassured."

"She's working all alone in a strange city. It was only because I overheard her family on the phone that I thought of helping her this way. Don't blame her—she's just a young girl."

With a few words, Yves painted me as the petty, jealous, narrowminded wife.

I let out a cold laugh.

However, he mistook it for anger, and a sudden realization dawned on him. His lips curved into a smile, as though he had solved the problem.

"Mari, I know it's always been your regret that we never had proper wedding photos taken. Tell you what—after I finish the shoot with Shontelle, you can put on this gown and we'll take some together. That way, it'll make up for your old regret."

I was struck speechless by the absurdity of his words.

So, he did know that the canceled outdoor wedding shoot—ruined by a sudden thunderstorm—was a regret I had carried for years. And yet, now he could commission a custom gown for Shontelle, redecorate our home for her photos, while for me? I was expected to tag along for a few leftover shots.

Even my regret was only worthy of being patched up in Shontelle's shadow.

"Mr. Perez," Shontelle's soft voice floated over, "these days, photos can all be edited. If it's just pictures, my family may not believe it..." She clutched the edge of her gown, feigning hesitation.

"Then what else do you need me to do? I'll cooperate," Yves answered without missing a beat.

"And don't call me Mr. Perez in front of Marichelle—she's not an outsider. Just call me like you used to."

Shontelle's cheeks turned pink as she nodded obediently.

"Well, I'd like to stay the night. Later, you can pretend to be my boyfriend and videocall my family with me. That's all."

Her ridiculous request barely stirred me anymore—I was numb to it. Yves, though, looked briefly uneasy.

It was really hard to fathom this man.

But Shontelle was quick. Seeing his hesitation, she instantly turned her tearful gaze at me.

"Miss Marichelle, I know it's a lot to ask, but I have no choice. My family is forcing me to go back. If I can't convince them, I'll lose my chance to survive here in the city. I just want to rely on my own efforts, not go home and be caged..."

She wept pitifully, as though I were the one forcing her into marriage.

"I never said I wouldn't agree," I replied coolly.

Her tears stopped immediately, replaced by a bright smile.

"Thank you, Miss Marichelle!"

But I caught the flicker of triumph in her expression, the smugness of someone who believed she had won.

Yves clearly wasn't as pleased. He grabbed my arm and pulled me aside.

"Mari, what do you mean by this? You're just handing me over to another woman?"

I shook off his grip, my gaze was icy. "Isn't this exactly what you wanted? Don't worry—I'll pack up soon. After all, this house needs to be cleared for its new mistress."

After leaving the villa, I went straight to the design studio I founded three years ago.

Since childhood, I had been influenced by my father, exposed to countless rare and precious jewelry pieces. Naturally, I chose design as my major at university.

My dream had always been to open my own company—turning passion into art, and skill into achievement.

But Yves' coaxing—half sweet promises, half subtle pressure—derailed that path.

"I can't bear to see you work so hard."

"I'll take care of you."

"Why not just be the woman behind me?"

And so I became an unemployed "kept" woman—free, but hollow.

It wasn't until I casually posted a sketch on Instagram and someone bought it at a high price that the fire inside me reignited. That was when I created Lumina, my design studio. To me, it is proof that I still have value, that I am more than someone else's shadow.

Never again will I let anyone extinguish the flame of my dreams.

The next day, I spent the morning sketching designs at the studio. Yves didn't call to ask where I had slept, or whether I was coming home. That suited me just fine—his silence saved me the trouble.

By noon, I received an order for a readymade necklace. The client specifically requested that I deliver it personally in the evening, payment on delivery.

It was strange, but money was money. Why turned it down?

That night, dressed casually in sportswear, I arrived at the designated location. It was a bar, seemingly booked out for a private event. Likely, the buyer was waiting inside.

The music wasn't too loud. A group of people gathered in the center, laughing and teasing as two people played some kind of game.

"Yves! Guess where Shontelle hid the playing card on her body?"

"Guess right and Shontelle will give you a special reward tonight!"

"You two are practically living together already, might as well call it marriage!"

"That woman, Marichelle, is just a block of wood. Poor Yves for enduring her all these years! Hahahaha!"

Every word stabbed my ears like a needle.

I stepped into the crowd, raising the small gift bag in my hand.

"Who here ordered a necklace?"

My voice wasn't loud, but it silenced the room instantly. Everyone here knew me. After all, I was the "block of wood" they had just mocked.

"Marichelle? What are you doing here?" Yves was the first to react. His expression instantly turned gloomy.

"Miss Marichelle, please don't misunderstand!" Shontelle quickly chimed in, her tone syrupy with innocence. "Our friends insisted on celebrating today—it's exactly 1,999 days since I met Mr. Perez. He didn’t want to make a big deal of it at first, he just thought cooking at home together would’ve been enough..."

Friends.

1,999 days.

Cooking at home.

She knew exactly where to stab. Because she understood—that was all I had ever wanted.

Instead, I had been nothing but their running joke for 1,999 days.

Clutching the jewelry box, I strode toward Shontelle. Yves immediately stepped in front of her, as though I might harm her.

"Shontelle," I said coldly, "you ordered this necklace, didn't you? If your intention was to show me just how much Yves cherishes you, then congratulations—you've wasted your effort. Because the moment he suggested a fake marriage with you, I was already done with him."

"Miss Marichelle, you really misunderstand," she said quickly, eyes wide with feigned innocence. "This necklace was only recommended by a friend. I had no idea it came from your studio."

She made sure to emphasize those last words—your studio.

Sure enough, Yves snatched the box from my hands and tore it open. He might dislike my work, but he knew my design style well. With one glance, he confirmed Shontelle's words were true.

"Marichelle, didn't you promise me you'd never work again? Is my allowance not enough for you? You could've just asked me for more money," he snarled.

With that, he tossed my necklace carelessly onto a table piled high with greasy snack wrappers and empty bottles.

And at that instant, I understood.

All his talk about love, about not wanting me to tire myself with work—it was never about me.

He just didn't want his wife to stand on her own two feet. He wanted me to become useless and dependent, so he could keep me locked in his palm forever.

"Why should I listen to you?" I intoned coldly.

"Marichelle!"

"Miss Marichelle, please don't provoke Mr. Perez on purpose. Whatever the issue is, we can go home and talk about it. We're all family, after all..."

As Shontelle spoke, she reached out to take my hand.

I stepped back, swatting her away in disgust. I barely touched her—but in the next instant, I watched her body fall backward in a dramatic collapse.

"Ah!"

Her arm struck the corner of a table, leaving a bloody scratch.

"Shontelle!"

Yves rushed to catch her, eyes red, glaring at me like he wanted to devour me.

Suddenly, a crisp sound rang.

Smack!

Five years ago, on our wedding day, under a shower of rose petals and the blessings of friends and family, I never imagined the first person to slap me would be my husband.

"Yves!" Even his friends gasped at the sound of that heavy blow.

But it was my reaction that truly shocked them.

I grabbed Yves by the tie, yanking him down, then drove my knee straight into his most vulnerable spot.

A man who betrays his marriage didn't deserve that function anyway.

"Ahhh—!"

The next thing I knew, we were all herded into the police station for brawling. And there, every finger pointed at me.

"It's because she caught Yves out so late with us—she was jealous."

"Marichelle, you've gone too far! Who attacks their own husband like that?"

"Marichelle has been unstable for a while now... I never expected her to do something like this."

Each word was a nail hammered into my skull. My temples throbbed, my vision spun, and the dam of grievance, fury, and humiliation finally burst.

"You worthless trash—"

But before I could finish, darkness closed in. My body gave out, and I collapsed.

—

I woke up to the smell of food. On the bedside table sat trays of dishes.

Yves was arranging them. The moment he saw me stir, he rushed over and clutched my hand tightly, as though afraid I might vanish if he let go.

"Mari, I was wrong. I shouldn't have spoken to you like that. From now on, do whatever you want—I won't stop you from working anymore. Just... don't lose control like you did today, alright?"

And then, as if it were nothing, he added softly, "When you're discharged, apologize to Shontelle, and we'll put this whole thing behind us."

Apologize?

He slept with his secretary behind my back!

His friends mocked me openly, treating her as the real wife!

At the police station, they all stood against me.

Yet in his eyes, I was the madwoman. The unreasonable one. The one who owed her an apology.

Even though I had already decided to divorce him, hearing those words from the man I had called my husband for five years still made my heart ache with a pain I couldn't suppress.

"Yves, since you care so much about Shontelle, why don't you just marry her? I'll step aside."

"Don't say such things. Mari, my wife will always be you."

On paper, yes—the wife would be me.

But in reality, it was always another woman.

And that kind of love? I wanted no part of it.

"Let's divorce, Yves."

Hearing that, he let go of my hand, straightening with a heavy sigh. His tone turned grave.

"Your little studio doesn't even bring in as much as the allowance I give you. Your Dad is overseas. Here, you have no one but me. Marichelle, don't be foolish. Without me, you'll be completely alone."

So that was it.

He believed I had no one behind me—no support, no escape—and that was why he dared to trample my bottom line again and again.

"Marichelle, after marriage, we are family. I, Yves Perez, will always be your support."

His wedding vows still echoed in my ears.

But the man who once stood before me with a pure heart was gone, and had become utterly unrecognizable.

After being discharged, I received a call from my father.

He said he was about to board his flight and would arrive in five hours.

When the call ended, I took a deep breath and looked up at the vast blue sky.

Before I left, I had to settle things here.

I had just mailed the finalized divorce papers to Yves' company when my studio assistant called in a panic.

"Miss Marichelle, something is wrong! Please come quickly!"

Her terrified voice made my stomach sink. Without another word, I rushed to the studio.

When I arrived, the sight nearly stopped my heart.

The place I had poured my soul into—every corner designed by my own hands—was in ruins.

Tables and chairs lay overturned.

My painstakingly drawn design sketches were scattered on the ground, trampled into filth.

And at the center of it all was Shontelle.

She was toying with one of the delicate necklaces from the counter, her lips curling into a smug smile as she looked at me.

"Marichelle, don't glare at me like that. It was Yves. I just mentioned that I liked your studio, and guess what? He handed it over to me as a gift!"

She tossed the necklace onto the ground and ground her heel into it.

"So, Marichelle, remember your place. As long as I want it, the position of Mrs. Perez will be mine anytime."

"Mrs. Perez? Who would even want that? What I see is you destroying my store! I've tolerated you again and again—did you really think I was so easy to bully?"

I grabbed Shontelle by the hair and slammed her head toward the counter.

"Help me!"

Before her face could smash into the surface, I was yanked back and hurled to the ground, my ribs hitting the corner of a table with a jolt of pain.

Right—I'd forgotten. She didn't come alone.

The bodyguards pinned me down, tying me to a chair. Shontelle stepped forward and slapped me hard across the face.

"That's for acting tough! You dared to touch me? Before, I was polite because Yves was around. But now? Who's going to protect you?"

I licked the blood off my lip, smiled at her through the sting.

"All this, for a man? If you want him so badly, he's yours."

Another smack landed across my cheek.

But it wasn't enough for her. Shontelle's eyes gleamed with malice as she turned to the bodyguards, her smile grew twisted.

"You—teach her a lesson. Make it the kind that doesn't leave marks."

They untied me, only to kick me down. Blows rained down. Through the haze of pain, I caught sight of Shontelle filming everything.

The next time I opened my eyes, I saw her again—her face smeared with fake blood, hands bound just like mine.

"Did you get it? Send it to Yves!" she ordered.

One of the masked men handed her a phone. Her ropes were clearly just for show.

"Marichelle, let's play a game. Let's see who Yves really thinks his wife is."

My stomach clenched. I didn't know what trick she was pulling this time—until the video call was connected.

On the screen, Yves appeared. His eyes frantic, voice sharp with command.

"Who are you? Who gave you the guts to kidnap my wife? Let her go, now!"

The man in the mask shifted the camera between the two of us.

"Which one is your wife? I'll release her."

"The one in pink! She's my wife. Don't hurt her! Whatever you want, I'll pay!"

Pink...

I never wore pink.

Shontelle lowered her head, barely able to hide her glee, trembling just enough to look convincingly frightened.

"Yves, I'm scared..." she whimpered.

"Don't be afraid. I won't let them touch you!"

Even though I had already stopped loving him, hearing my husband of five years choose her without a flicker of doubt tore open a wound in my alreadydead heart.

"I need proof," the masked man said coldly. He picked up a pair of pliers and moved behind Shontelle.

"What are you doing? She's my wife! Would I mistake her? Would I lie about this?" Yves' roar nearly cracked the speakers.

"Are you certain she's your wife?" the man pressed.

"I'm certain!" His voice was firm, unhesitating.

Snip—one rope on Shontelle's wrist fell loose.

Two left.

Then the masked man turned toward me.

A chill crept down my spine. My scalp prickled as an ominous dread filled me.

The sharp sting didn't register until it was too late—he had ripped one of my fingernails clean off.

"Ah—!"

No matter how hard I tried to endure, the scream tore from my throat as beads of sweat rolled down my forehead.

"What are you doing?!" Yves' voice cracked in shock.

"Didn't you say she isn't your wife?" The masked man pointed at Shontelle. "Your wife has three ropes binding her. For every rope I cut, I'll rip out one of this woman's nails."

"Are you insane?!" Yves' forehead bulged with veins. "Name your price—I'll pay it! Let them both go!"

"There's no such good deal." The man sneered, twirling the pliers in his hand. "Answer me again. Which one is your wife?"

He moved closer.

"No answer? Then neither of them walks out alive."

He strode toward Shontelle.

"Yves!" she screamed, her voice trembling with practiced fear.

And then came Yves' cruelest words, each one cutting me deeper than the pliers ever could.

"Shontelle! She's my wife!"

"Ahhh—!"

Even biting through my lip couldn't silence the shriek as another fingernail was torn away.

Ten fingers, tied to the heart—they ripped two from me already.

"There's still one more," the man reminded him coldly.

"Who the hell are you?!" Yves' eyes were bloodshot on the screen, his voice thunderous. "Pray I never find you—because if I do, I'll kill you!"

"Game is not over."

The third nail came free.

This time, I made no sound.

The man paused, even a little surprised, staring at me with something close to respect.

But my gaze had already gone dim.

So this was what it felt like—utter despair for someone you once gave your whole heart to.

Shontelle leaned closer, her lips curling in mock sympathy.

"Look at you now, Marichelle. I almost pity you. But it's not my fault that in Yves's eyes... His wife is me."

Her little game was complete, she left satisfied—satisfied enough to abandon me bleeding on the cold floor.

The ropes bit into my wrists. My fingers oozed blood, a constant reminder of what had just been done to me.

My lips were cracked, my body throbbed with pain. Exhaustion pulled my eyes shut.

—

Meanwhile, Yves threw on a coat and stormed toward the door. He didn't believe the kidnappers would actually release Marichelle and Shontelle.

As soon as he opened it, he nearly collided with Shontelle, who had returned.

Seeing him, she instantly morphed into a trembling rabbit, her eyes wide with fear.

"Yves, you don't know how scared I was just now. I thought I was going to die—that I'd never see you again..."

"Where is Marichelle?" Yves pushed her out of his arms, demanding an answer.

For a split second, displeasure flashed across her face, but she quickly masked it with teary grievance.

"Marichelle... she..."

"What about her?"

"She... she sold herself to the kidnappers to survive. They took her away. I wanted to ask where they were going, but I was too terrified... so I ran back to find you."

"Yves, what should we do now?"

Yves' chest tightened with irritation. That pitiful, fragile act of hers—the one he once adored—suddenly grated on him.

But there was no time to dwell on it. Finding Marichelle was all that mattered.

—

When I opened my eyes again, everything was white.

My hands were carefully bandaged, and on the bedside table sat a plate of fresh strawberries—my favorite.

"Dad..."

The man standing guard turned at once. His weathered face softened with both pain and relief.

"My precious girl," he choked out, taking my hand. "Tell me—who did this to you? I'll make them pay, ten times, a hundred times over!"

I lifted my trembling hand to clasp his broad palm. Taking a deep breath, I spoke calmly.

"Dad... get me a death certificate."

The death certificate was mailed alongside the divorce papers to Yves' company.

I didn't know when—or if he would even open them.

But I knew this much: I was leaving.

Leaving for a city a thousand miles away—to start anew with the people I love, and the ones who truly love me.