She Wasted Our Love, I Lost My Love

My wife was a woman with billions of networth. Yet, I dreamed of divorcing her every single day. On paper, she was the kind of woman every man would kill to have.

It all started when my mother fell gravely ill. Her last wish was simple: she wanted to see Freya and her grandson one last time. That day, I dropped everything and rushed home.

What I found wasn't the reunion she’d hoped for instead. When I opened the bedroom door, I saw them, Freya and her first love, together in our bed and very much naked.

I didn't say a word. Just closed the door quietly and left.

I buried my mother alone, in silence. After the funeral, I stepped outside, dialed Freya's number and calmly asked for a divorce.

But it wasn't her voice that answered. It was his, the first love.

"Sorry, Mr. Sauerbeck," the man said with a mocking chuckle. "She's resting right now. Just fell asleep, actually—I happened to help her a bit for that. Hope you don’t mind not disturbing her."

I didn't flinch. "Tell her we’re done," I said flatly.

He gave a dry laugh. "I’ll make sure she gets the message."

——

A few days later, Freya came back from a business trip.

When she walked through the door, I didn’t get up to greet her. Didn’t smile. Didn’t speak. I just sat there, watching TV, like she was a stranger.

"Go pick out a pajama set for me," she said, already peeling off her clothes as she headed to the shower. "I'm exhausted."

The apartment was silent. There was nobody else but us and the soft rustling of her designer clothes hitting the floor one by one, revealing the body I used to worship. Skin like porcelain, curves like art.

Once upon a time, I’d have leapt at the chance to please her—followed her into the bathroom, offered to scrub her back, begged for her attention.

But nothing of that like happened now. There wasn't even a flicker of desire in my heart.

Freya finished her shower and stepped out in a cloud of steam. When she saw me still sitting there, unmoved, she frowned.

"Where's my clothes?" she asked. "Just get the one with the cartoon print—you used to like that one."

I turned to her, voice calm and steady. "When are we getting divorced?"

She scoffed. "Don’t be ridiculous. That night you called, it was late. I was already asleep."

She dried her hair, not even looking at me. "Alfred just answered for me. He's my assistant, that’s his job. I already told him not to overstep again. You’re not seriously jealous, are you?"

"Jealous?"

She still thought I was the same man. Still thought I cared. She had no idea how far gone I was.

“Alright,” Freya said with a sigh. “Go get my pajamas, will you? I’m really tired. Let’s just go to bed early tonight. Tomorrow we’ll visit your mother at the hospital.”

Her words stabbed through me like ice.

I looked at her with indiference. “Visit my mother? Where exactly do you plan on visiting her?”

She blinked, caught off guard by the question. “At the hospital, obviously.”

Then, as if trying to sound helpful, she added, “Oh, by the way, while I was out of town I looked into some options. There's a clinic in Dracopolis—really good care. I could have someone arrange the transfer. It would be better for her, longterm…”

“My mother is dead!” I cut her off midsentence, unable to hold it back any longer. I shouted it.

Freya flinched like I’d slapped her.

She stared at me, stunned. For a second, I think she thought I was lying.

“WWhat? Your mother… why didn’t I know about this?” she stammered.

Of course she didn’t know.

When my mother passed, she was here—wrapped in silk sheets with another man, moaning his name. Not a single thought in her head for the woman who raised me.

“Does it even matter anymore whether you knew?” I asked, my voice colder than steel. “When she was still alive, all she wanted was to see you. One last time. But you—you know damn well what you were doing.”

I took a step closer, my eyes locked on hers.

“And now, when her eyes are closed forever, now you want to play the devoted daughterinlaw? What’s the point of this act?”

Freya stood frozen in silence. Without replying, she turned and walked into the dressing room.

A moment later, she reappeared—wearing the cartoonprint pajama set. The one I used to say made her look cute. The one she knew I liked.

She stood across the room, looking at me with a faint, almost childlike sadness.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I really didn’t know.”

Then she turned and walked quietly into the bedroom.

A sharp ache twisted in my chest again.

We met back in high school. Funny how it all started—we were in the same class. She was the class president; I was her vice.

At first, she always ranked number one. Every test, every subject—she had the top score.

Until one day... On a midterm, my total score missed hers by just one point.

That day, she came to me, smirking like she'd won a war. “Even if it's just one point,” she said, “I’ll always be better than you. Just like I’m president… and you’re only the vice.”

I never understood why she said that. Maybe it was her way of pushing me. Maybe it was just ego. But whatever it was, it lit something in me.

From that day forward, I threw myself into studying with everything I had. I stayed up later, studied harder and sent her latenight messages just to ask: [You still awake?]

It wasn’t concern. It was reconnaissance. I wanted to know how hard she was working—so I could work just a little harder. Just one more minute. Just one more point. Just enough to pass her. To prove myself.

And Freya… she did the same.

Even though she was a girl, she was ruthless when it came to competition. She'd message me too: [You asleep yet?]

Freya wanted the same edge. Wanted to beat me just as badly as I wanted to beat her.

We pushed each other past our limits. Some nights we stayed up until 2 or 3 in the morning—both of us too stubborn to be the first to stop.

But the body has its limits. Lack of sleep hit us like a freight train during the day. Eventually, neither of us could keep it up.

Freya cracked first.

One day, she cornered me in the hallway, her face pale with exhaustion. “We need rules,” she said. “Starting now—lights out at 10:30. No exceptions. No more sneaking in extra study time. Promise me.”

I looked at her with doubt. “I can do that,” I said. “But can I trust you not to cheat?”

She rolled her eyes, scoffing. “Please. I don’t need to cheat to beat you. I’ll win fair and square.”

So every night, right at 10:30, we’d both send the same message:

[Stopping now. Goodnight.]

But I lied. I kept going.

Even if it was just thirty more minutes, just one extra chapter, I believed it mattered. I believed every minute counted—that every second of effort would eventually tip the scale in my favor.

Then came another round of test results.

No surprise this time, I beat her. By two points. Freya stared at me like the numbers were lying. Like maybe I’d cheated. Like she couldn’t quite believe it.

Predictably, she was pissed. After class, she texted me to meet her at the cafe just outside school.

The moment she walked in, she didn’t even sit down. She stormed over to the table, slammed her test paper right in front of me.

She asked if I had secretly studied outside our agreement time.

When she confronted me, I felt a pang of guilt and admitted that I had been studying an extra half hour each night. I expected her to explode in anger. Instead, she turned and left without a word.

The next mock exam came and once again, she couldn't surpass me. That day, she broke down in tears right there in the classroom. Our classmates and even the teacher tried to console her.

Later that evening, she asked me to meet her at the small park near our school. Under the dim streetlights, she looked at me with redrimmed eyes and asked, "Have you been extending your study time again?"

I nodded, "Yes, I still study an extra half hour each night."

She burst into tears.

Only then did I realize the depth of her frustration. She had been pushing herself, studying until 1 a.m. every night, trying to outdo me. Despite her efforts, I still managed to stay ahead.

We were both young and naive. I stood there, watching her cry, feeling helpless and unsure of how to comfort her.

In the next exam, I intentionally made two mistakes, allowing her to surpass me. The errors were obvious and the teacher reprimanded me in front of the class, even calling me into the office for a stern lecture.

While I was in the office, Freya saw my test paper and realized I had let her win on purpose. She asked to meet over the weekend.

But when the time came, she didn't show up. Calls went unanswered. Worried, I searched for her and eventually found her cornered by two thugs in a narrow alley.

Without hesitation, I rushed in to help her, taking a beating that left me hospitalized.

During my recovery, she visited me every day after school, bringing class notes. We studied together, sharing those quiet moments.

Eventually, we both got accepted into the same university. It was then that she confessed her feelings to me.

After we started dating, I discovered that she came from a wealthy family, a true rich heiress.

The day we graduated from university, we decided to get married. However, her family was firmly against it.

Especially her younger sister—she looked down on me from the very beginning. She made snide, passiveaggressive comments and sometimes openly mocked me, calling me a "golddigger," saying I was just a nobody chasing after her sister’s money.

Only Freya and I knew the truth.

What we had started as a real friendship—pure and simple. It wasn’t until much later that it turned into love. By the time I found out she came from a wealthy family, my feelings for her had already been genuine.

Still, that time in my life was tough.

I felt lost, like I didn’t belong. To show that I mattered, Freya went against her family’s wishes. She secretly took her household registration papers and came with me to the registry office. We signed the marriage certificate on our own.

When her parents found out, they were furious. Their disapproval didn’t ease until Freya showed them her pregnancy test results. Only then did they begrudgingly accept our marriage.

But acceptance didn’t mean respect.

Her family continued to treat me with contempt. No matter how warm or polite I tried to be, all I got in return was sarcasm and cold shoulders. Their mockery stripped me of any dignity I had left.

In the early years, Freya would often comfort me. She’d tell me to be patient, that they’d come around. But as time passed—especially after our child was born—things began to change.

She grew distant, colder. It felt like the more I tried to hold on, the faster she pulled away. Worse, she started developing some vague, uncomfortable closeness with her assistant—one that she never clearly defined but never denied, either.

I tried to bring us back together. I became more attentive, more loving, trying to remind her of what we once had.

But instead of bringing us closer, it just pushed her further away.

She started criticizing everything about me—my job, my habits, my worth. She’d even compare me to her assistant, pointing out everything he did better.

And then… my mother passed away in the hospital.

In that moment, I finally understood that whatever innocent love Freya and I once shared had long since faded. The bond we once had was gone.

Our relationship had turned toxic. There was no point in pretending anymore.

That night, like most nights, I stayed up past 11 p.m. I had gotten used to it.

I didn’t go back to our bedroom. I slept in a separate room now. Because every time I walked into that bedroom, every time I saw that bed, all I could think about… was the day I came home and found her there—with him.

The next morning, almost as if on cue, we opened our doors at the exact same time.

She looked at me, startled. "Why didn’t you come back to the bedroom last night?"

I met her eyes calmly. "Do you really think there’s a point anymore?"

Freya’s face darkened. "You’re so petty sometimes. You never try to understand me."

I nodded slowly. "You’re right. I didn’t understand you... When my mother was in the hospital, asking to see you and her grandson one last time."

"When your assistant was lying in our bed. I’ve been trying—really trying—to figure out how to forgive you. But I just can’t."

I walked away.

When I reached the front door, I paused. "Should I find a lawyer to draft the divorce papers, or do you want to handle that?"

Freya didn’t move. She just stood there, staring at me like a stranger. "Whatever. Do what you want."

That weekend, I went to a law office and had a divorce agreement drafted.

When it was done, I headed back to what was still technically our home. I held my key to the door, but hesitated. Maybe… maybe I didn’t want to walk back into that place ever again.

I pulled the key back out.

Instead, I went to my home—my real one. The one I grew up in. Ever since Mom passed, I was the only one left here.

I opened an old drawer and found a photo from a few years ago. It was one of the three of us—me, my mom and my son. In the picture, Mom was smiling so gently, joy radiating from her face. But my son… he looked grumpy, clearly not happy to be taking that photo.

When he was born, my mother was so hapy. That child was her everything.

However, Freya’s family—they were overbearing from day one. Not long after our son was born, they told my mom straight to her face: That my son won’t have a future if he grows up in your house. He’s going to take their family name—Weiss.

When our son was born, Freya's family took over his upbringing entirely.

My mother, his grandmother, was only allowed to see him once a month. At first, she was disappointed, but each visit brought her immense joy. However, as our son grew older, he began to adopt the elitist attitudes of Freya's family, looking down on his own grandmother.

I was furious when he disrespected her. In a moment of anger, I slapped him.

Instead of understanding, Freya's entire family turned against me, accusing me of being abusive. Even Freya said, "You're overreacting. It's normal for him to feel distant from someone he didn't grow up with."

Our son had been molded by the Weiss Family's values—materialistic and dismissive of those less fortunate. He even began to distance himself from me.

My mother had once been proud that I married someone as accomplished as Freya. But after our son was born, she seemed to lose her joy. Perhaps the constant sorrow contributed to her early passing.

Late one night, around 1 a.m., Freya called me. "Where are you? Why didn't you come home?"

I calmly replied, "I met with a lawyer today to draft our divorce agreement."

After a pause, she asked, "Can we not go through with the divorce?"

Her words pierced me. I thought I had moved on, but years of shared history aren't easily erased. Emotions are complex.

I didn't respond and hung up.

A few days later, Freya called again, inviting me to her mother's birthday celebration. Initially, I didn't want to go. But looking at the divorce papers, I decided to attend, seeking closure.

Then, I finally stepped into the Weiss Family estate again.

Every time I used to come to this villa, I’d feel a heavy weight in my chest—as if I didn’t belong, as if I was constantly being judged.

But not this time.

Maybe it was the divorce papers in my hand that changed everything. For the first time in years, I felt free. Nothing could tie me down now.

I arrived quite late.

The Weiss estate was already bustling with guests. Laughter and chatter filled the air as everyone celebrated my motherinlaw, Anne Weiss’s birthday. People were offering gifts and warm wishes. The younger ones were behaving well, expecting to get some sort of reward.

When I stepped inside, the room fell into a brief hush. The crowd instinctively parted, clearing a path.

I walked straight toward Anne, holding the divorce agreement in my hand.

Freya and her sister stood just behind her, flanking her like loyal sentinels. Her first love—yes, he was there too—hovered nearby, comfortably in the picture, as though they were the real family now.

Anne’s expression soured the moment she saw me.

Her voice was as sharp and dismissive as ever. “You’re late. Do you even acknowledge me as your motherinlaw anymore?”

Freya, surprisingly, stepped in to smooth things over, offering a cheerful excuse. “Mom, don’t be upset. I’m sure Jonas was just out trying to find the perfect gift for you. He wanted to surprise you, that’s all.”

Anne’s face softened—slightly. She turned to me coldly and asked, “So? What did you bring?”

She had never once treated me with kindness or respect. I used to hope I could win her over, that one day she might finally accept me. But I didn’t care about that anymore.

I smiled calmly and handed her the envelope.

“This,” I said, “might just be the best gift I’ve ever given you.”

The moment Anne laid eyes on the bold letters 'DIVORCE AGREEMENT', her expression changed instantly.

No one had seen it coming.

A stunned silence fell over the room. Guests, relatives—everyone froze, their eyes bouncing between me and Freya, trying to make sense of what had just happened.

Freya's face turned ghostly pale.