Mine, Not Yours

SADIE

The screen of my phone illuminated my tear-streaked face as I stared at the string of text messages. Each word was like a dagger to my heart.

Just finished with Adrian. He says he'll be home late. Don't wait up, wifey.

The message from Vivian was accompanied by a photo that made my stomach turn—Adrian's custom monogrammed cufflinks on a nightstand I didn't recognize, next to a woman's earring I'd seen Vivian wear at the last company gala.

My fingers trembled as I scrolled through the earlier messages she'd sent. Explicit descriptions of what they were doing together. Intimate details that made me physically ill. Things I had dreamed of experiencing with my husband but never had.

"Three years," I whispered to the empty dining room, the anniversary dinner I'd spent hours preparing now growing cold on our unused wedding china.

The candles I'd lit were halfway burned down, wax dripping onto the expensive tablecloth like tears. I'd even brought out the bottle of Château Margaux 1995 that Adrian's grandfather had gifted us on our wedding day—a day that should have been the happiest of my life but instead marked the beginning of this elaborate charade.

I glanced at my reflection in the darkened window. The black dress I'd carefully selected hung perfectly on my frame. My hair and makeup were flawless. All for nothing.

My phone buzzed again.

He never loved you, Sadie. He's been counting down the days until your little arrangement ends. I thought you should know before you embarrass yourself further.

The message was followed by a voice note. With shaking hands, I pressed play.

"Vivian, stop," Adrian's voice came through, breathless. "She'll be expecting me home."

"It's your anniversary, isn't it?" Vivian's voice was teasing, seductive. "Poor Sadie, all alone on her special day."

"The prenup expires next week. Then I'm done playing husband."

Their laughter mingled together, and I hurled my phone across the room. It hit the wall with a crack but didn't break—unlike my heart, which felt shattered beyond repair.

The memory of our wedding day flooded back unbidden. Not the ceremony itself, which had been a cold, businesslike affair, but the moment afterward when Adrian had cornered me in the bridal suite.

"Sign this," he'd demanded, thrusting a document into my hands.

"What is it?" I'd asked, still foolishly hopeful in my white gown.

"A prenuptial agreement. Three years, Sadie. I'm giving you three years because my grandmother insisted. No intimacy between us. No cheating. When the time is up, we go our separate ways."

I'd felt my dreams crumbling even as I clung to a sliver of hope. "And if you fall in love with me during that time?"

His laugh had been cruel, but there was something in his eyes—uncertainty, perhaps—that gave me courage.

"If that happens, which it won't," he'd said, "then I suppose there would be no reason to divorce."

"Promise me," I'd insisted, needing something concrete to hold onto.

He'd rolled his eyes. "Fine. I promise. If by some miracle I fall for you, we'll become a real couple."

That promise had sustained me through three years of loneliness, of sleeping in separate bedrooms, of watching him avoid my touch. Three years of cooking his favorite meals, managing his household, attending business functions on his arm—playing the perfect wife while receiving nothing in return.

All because Helena Moretti, his grandmother, had taken a liking to me when I helped care for her after her surgery. When she'd asked what she could do to repay me, I'd confessed my feelings for her grandson. She'd arranged everything, believing she was granting my heart's desire.

Instead, she'd sentenced me to three years of invisible torture.

I stood up abruptly, my chair scraping against the hardwood floor. The sound broke something inside me. With a sweep of my arm, I sent the crystal glasses flying. They shattered against the wall, the expensive wine running down like blood.

My phone buzzed again from where it had landed. I retrieved it, half-expecting another taunt from Vivian.

Instead, it was a calendar notification: Three-year anniversary. Last day of prenup agreement.

I froze. Adrian had gotten the date wrong. Our arrangement didn't end next week—it ended tonight. He couldn't even be bothered to remember the correct date of our sham marriage's expiration.

A strange calm settled over me. I walked to the kitchen and began methodically packing away the untouched food. The roast beef he loved so much, the potatoes roasted exactly how he preferred, the chocolate soufflé I'd practiced making a dozen times to get perfect—all of it went into containers.

Then I picked up my phone and typed a message to Adrian:

I know about Vivian. I've known for longer than you think. The prenup expires today, not next week. You're free. Don't come home—I won't be here.

I pressed send, then opened my contacts and scrolled to a number I hadn't called in three years. My finger hovered over it for a moment before I made the call.

"Hello?" The familiar voice answered on the second ring.

"Dad," I said, my voice steadier than I expected. "I'm coming home."

William Patterson had warned me about Adrian Moretti. He'd begged me not to throw away my position at Patterson Industries for a man who clearly didn't value me. I hadn't listened.

As I packed a suitcase with only the essentials—clothes I'd bought before my marriage, jewelry that had belonged to my mother, photos of my family—I felt something I hadn't experienced in three years: freedom.

Adrian Moretti had never loved me. He'd never even tried. And I had wasted three years of my life trying to earn the affection of a man who was incapable of giving it.

My phone buzzed with Adrian's reply:

What are you talking about? Where are you going?

I didn't bother responding. Instead, I took one last look around the penthouse apartment that had never felt like home. Then I walked out, closing the door on three years of delusion.

I was nobody's fool. Not anymore.