“Are you absolutely sure this is what you want?”
His laugh was bitter, his eyes closing for a moment before he forced them open again.
“You’ve really made up your mind? You’re set on divorcing me?”
I nodded firmly. “Yes.”
“I admit I failed as a husband. So I don’t blame you for cheating. After the divorce, we’ll split everything fifty-fifty. You don’t have to walk away with nothing.”
Ethan turned back toward me, his face shadowed by the light behind him.
There was no more rage, no accusations—only a quiet sorrow.
“I just can’t figure it out,” he whispered. “We were so in love. How did it all come to this?”
“When I asked you to be a stay-at-home wife, you refused.”
“Was that the moment you had already planned your escape, throwing yourself into work so you could secure shares in the company?”
I stayed silent, and Ethan gave a bitter smile, as if resigning himself.
“If you love being a workaholic so much, then go live with your work.”
He slammed the door shut behind him.
I let out a dry laugh. Yes—why had I become a workaholic in the first place?
Because the playing field between men and women was never balanced.
Ethan only needed to show up for a morning meeting to secure his role as CEO.
Dividends fell into his lap every month, enough to drown in.
But me? I had to stay up all night writing proposals, compiling reports, personally attending endless dinners and networking events—giving everything I had just to hold the same weight in the company as he did.
And whose fault was that?
The man I’d loved for ten years, the husband I had chosen myself—was it that I didn’t want to spend time with him?
Why must a woman’s role at home always come at the cost of her career? I wasn’t willing to accept that.
If I had to choose, I would rather give up love than sacrifice my work.
I wiped away my tears, washed up quickly, and went right back to my laptop.
Men might abandon me, but work and money never would.
Ethan didn’t come home for an entire week, not even a single text.
Even the fragile peace we used to maintain—he couldn’t be bothered anymore.
Yet he still didn’t bring up divorce.
Even at the company’s weekly executive meetings, when our eyes met, Ethan avoided me, sometimes even deliberately stepping aside.
Everyone noticed the change.
My secretary whispered, “Ms. Carter, did you and Mr. Miller have another fight?”
I pressed my fingers to my temple.
“What makes you say that?”