His Secret Wife Five Wasted YearsChapter 1
It was eleven at night, and I was getting ready to head out for my overnight cleaning shift to help make ends meet.
That's when a video popped up on my feed.
The title read: Show Off Your Old Awards and Certificates!
The comment section was buzzing, but one reply stood out above all the rest.
"I was never good at school, so does it count if my husband had custom awards made just for me?"
Unlike everyone else posting yellowed paper certificates from their childhood, the photo this woman shared showed an entire wall of awards cast in solid gold.
Each one was studded with colored diamonds spelling out things like World's Most Adorable Sweetheart and Most Enchanting Little Vixen.
I shook my head in amazement. Rich people really did flex differently when showing off their love.
I was about to scroll past when, egged on by a flood of jealous and admiring comments, the woman posted another photo.
A kiss shot of the happy couple.
My fingertip froze in midair. Every drop of blood in my body went cold.
Against the backdrop of that lavish interior, the man's profile was unmistakable. I would have recognized it anywhere.
It was my husband. Edmund Mason. The one who was supposed to be out driving a cab right now.
...
The comments were going wild.
"Oh my God, do men like this actually exist? Gorgeous, loaded, AND obsessed with his wife? No way this isn't photoshopped!"
To prove it was real, the girl secretly started a livestream.
On screen, a tall man in an apron moved around a gleaming kitchen, his back to the camera. He must have sensed someone watching, because he turned and smiled, soft and warm.
Edmund's face filled the screen.
The girl's voice came through in a giddy whisper.
"See? My husband spoils me rotten. This penthouse is worth tens of millions. He gave it to me as a birthday present."
"Okay, gotta go! Hubby's making me a late-night snack!"
The livestream cut off abruptly. Viewers flooded the chat with envy.
I was the only one whose heart was turning to ice, inch by inch.
I picked up my phone. Put it down. Picked it up again. Finally, I couldn't stop myself and dialed the number I knew by heart.
The line rang for a long time before he answered. When he did, Edmund's voice carried that familiar, carefully manufactured exhaustion.
"Louisa Sullivan. What's up?"
"Nothing. Just wondering what you're doing."
He let out a tired chuckle.