For ten years, I was Mrs. Ethan Cole, the perfect half of Manhattan's "Power Couple," living in a penthouse straight out of a magazine.
I believed in our vows, even if love felt distant.
Then, at a grim police precinct, I overheard him.
My husband, Ethan, praised his assistant, Chloe, "She's not like Ava. Chloe has self-respect. She wouldn't just... offer herself up like that."
My world shattered.
Ten years, my entire adult life, reduced to a woman he deemed disposable, lacking "self-respect."
He proved it, dismissing my car accident, then allowing Chloe to maliciously frame me at Thanksgiving.
He even grabbed my arm, his fingers biting into my skin, all to protect her.
I was his property, an inconvenience, nothing more.
How had I been so blind to the depth of his contempt?
How could a relationship built on duty devolve into such cruel neglect and humiliation?
The man who was supposed to be my protector had become my tormentor.
That night, my voice steady, I told him, "I want a divorce."
His rage erupted, demanding I "come home," threatening to make my life a living hell.
But the compliant wife was gone.
My only regret was not leaving sooner.
This was no longer a marriage; it was my fight for freedom, my chance to finally live.