Dear Husband, I'm tired of lying, good bye!

Dave froze for a moment, his brows furrowing as if trying to process what I’d just said. Then, unexpectedly, a laugh escaped his lips—low, mocking, disbelieving.

“What are you trying to say, Elisa?” he asked, tilting his head, that same cruel amusement flickering in his eyes.

I felt my pulse hammering in my ears. My hands trembled, but I forced the words out. “I know the truth now—about Franco.”

His smirk faltered.

“It was Liana,” I said, my voice shaking. “She was the one who told me who he really is. Why did you lie to me, Dave? Why didn’t you tell me the truth that your brother is your son?”

He crossed his arms, unbothered, but there was a flicker of something—guilt, maybe—before it hardened into arrogance.

“So what?” he said coldly. “If he’s my son and I hid it, made him my brother—what are you going to do, Elisa? Expose me?”

“Yes!” My voice cracked. “You think you can just bury the truth forever? Franco deserves to know—he needs to—”

Before I could finish, his hand came down on my face again. The slap echoed through the room. My vision blurred, and pain bloomed across my cheek.

He grabbed my arm, yanking me close. His grip was so tight it hurt. His breath hit my skin, warm and threatening.

“Do you think I’d let you?” he hissed. “If you expose me, I’ll tell everyone your background is fake. That you’re not rich—that you hired people to pretend to be your family.”

“Dave—”

The words hit harder than the slap. I could barely breathe. He meant it—every word. He would do it without a shred of remorse.

For a moment, I thought maybe it was better if everything came out. I was tired—tired of the lies, the pretending, the weight of secrets. Maybe exposure would finally set me free.

But then I thought of my grandmother—frail, her heart weak. If she learned I’d lied about my family just to marry a rich man… she wouldn’t survive it. The image of her collapsing from another heart attack froze me.

I couldn’t let that happen.

I was about to speak, to fight back, when the door opened.

“Enough.”

Sandra’s voice cut through the air like a blade. She stepped inside, calm but cold, her eyes flashing with quiet authority.

Dave released me instantly, his jaw tightening.

Sandra looked between us, then at him. “You wouldn’t dare,” she said icily. “Because if you ruin her and this family collapses with it—I’ll make sure you go down with us. We hid the child for his protection — for Dave and the business. If his rivals found out there’s an illegitimate heir, they’ll use it against him, drag his name through the mud, and destroy everything we’ve built. You love him, Elisa; you should understand that sacrifices are necessary.”

I stared at her, confusion mixing with anger. “So… everything you’ve done for me,” I said softly, “was it all fake?”

Sandra turned her gaze toward me, unflinching. “You’re the first one who faked everything, Elisa,” she said flatly. “Be thankful I agreed to this marriage at all because you became famous when you were nothing but a cheap girl.”

My chest tightened. The world seemed to tilt beneath me.

She took a step closer, her perfume sharp in the air. “You’re nothing without us. So don’t you dare ruin this. Got it?”

Her words sliced through what was left of my strength. She turned and left, heels clicking against the marble floor, each sound echoing like a final warning.

When the door closed, silence fell until Dave spoke again.

“You can divorce me, but take note, I know where your grandmother is, and she needs medicine, right?” He left.

I stood there, numb, my palms shaking, my face burning from the slap. The air felt heavy—like all the lies I had told, all the pretenses I’d built, were collapsing on top of me.

No. I couldn’t just stand here. I couldn’t keep living like this.

I gathered my strength and turned toward the door, ready to walk away, ready to end everything—when a familiar voice stopped me.

“Still not leaving?”

Liana stood there, leaning against the doorway. Her lips curved into a smirk, eyes glinting with amusement. “Are you really that stupid?”

I clenched my fists. “Liana, not now—”

“You should leave,” she said simply. “Because my sister is here now. She is the mother of Franco and Dave’s greatest love. And she’s the rightful one to be with him.”

For a second I almost believed it—divorce, expose everything, walk away from the web of lies. The thought was intoxicatingly simple: leave the name, the money, the false life.

But it passed in a breath. Why would I? I’d crawled my way up from nothing; I’d fought for every inch. If Franco and they chose to use me, then I could use them back.

I straightened, anger sharpening my voice. “Tell your sister,” I said, stepping forward. “She’ll regret coming back. I won’t give up Dave. If we’re all going to lie, then fine—let’s all suffer with our lies.”

I didn’t wait for her reply. I turned and walked out, my heels striking hard against the marble floor. Each step felt like defiance, though inside, my chest ached with something I couldn’t name.

That night, I packed my bags. I needed to breathe—to be somewhere far from the city, far from the noise and deceit. I went to the province, to the small house where my grandmother lived—the woman who had raised me when my parents chose my sister over me.

When I arrived, she was sitting by the window, her frail hands knitting quietly. Her face lit up when she saw me. “Elisa,” she said, voice soft and warm. “You look tired. Is something wrong?”

I forced a smile and shook my head. “Nothing, Mom,” I whispered, kneeling beside her. “I just… wanted to be with you for a while.”

She smiled faintly and patted my head. “Then stay. Rest.”

For the next few days, I tried to. I cooked for her, walked along the fields, pretended that the air could wash away what I’d done, what I’d become. But peace never came. Every quiet moment was filled with echoes of Dave’s voice, Liana’s smirk, Sandra’s threats.

When I finally decided to return to the city, I opened my phone for the first time in days. Dozens of missed calls from Dave flashed on the screen. My stomach twisted, unsure if it was guilt or dread.

At the airport, I barely had time to think before cameras and microphones were shoved into my face. Reporters shouted my name, flashes blinding me.

“Mrs. Morales, is it true that Franco is your husband’s illegitimate child?”

“Did you know about it before you married him?”

The noise blurred into chaos. My bag slipped from my hand. My pulse pounded in my ears.

My whole world spun—and then everything went black.