End My Marriage While Mourning My Daughter

The second I walked through the door, my steps faltered.

Vanessa was already sprawled across the living room sofa, dressed in a silky nightgown, lazily munching on chips like she owned the house.

“Didn’t you say you had some party tonight?” I asked, keeping my tone neutral. “You mentioned you wouldn’t be back.”

She flashed me a small, almost bashful smile. “Oh, Camille, I forgot to tell you. I got into an argument with my boyfriend. I only went to the party to make him jealous. I even told him about it, but he acted like he didn’t care. Then the moment I arrived, he showed up and dragged me out.”

She casually tugged at the neckline of her gown, letting the fabric slip just enough. The marks on her skin were obvious. Dark. Fresh. She glanced at me sideways, like she was proudly showing off a trophy.

“I didn’t realize he’d get that jealous,” she added lightly. “We ended up fooling around in the car. Three times.”

My fingers curled into my palms so tightly my nails left crescents in my skin. Still, I forced my voice to remain steady.

“Since when do you have a boyfriend? You never mentioned one.”

She laughed softly, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “Oh, that? Around nine months ago. Right after I got back from overseas. My brother introduced us.”

Nine months.

The exact month she moved into this house. The same time Nikolai’s so-called friend asked him to “take care” of his sister. What a convenient arrangement. She must’ve attached herself to him from day one.

My breathing grew heavier despite my effort to stay composed. Anger simmered just beneath my skin. And then I felt it—Nikolai’s hands settling firmly on my shoulders.

“Sweetheart, you’ve had a long day,” he murmured gently. “I’ll prepare a bath for you. You need to relax.”

As if nothing was wrong, he guided me toward the bathroom.

I went inside and shut the door behind me. I began undressing, telling myself that sinking into warm water might steady my thoughts. Halfway through, I realized I hadn’t brought fresh clothes.

When I opened the door—

Everything stopped.

A few feet away, Nikolai had Vanessa pinned beneath him. His hand tore at her nightgown impatiently, his mouth pressed against her skin while his grip held her firmly in place.

She tipped her head back, letting out soft, breathy sounds. “Careful… Camille’s still showering,” she teased. “Didn’t you already have enough earlier in the car?”

His voice dropped, rough and possessive. “Don’t test me. If you even think about letting another man near you, you’ll regret it.”

She laughed quietly, pleased with his reaction. Then her gaze shifted—and locked onto me.

“Oh, relax,” she purred. “I won’t. I’m yours, remember? You’re so jealous, aren’t you?”

That was all I could take.

I grabbed my clothes and shut the bathroom door, locking it this time.

The bathwater was hot when I lowered myself into it, but it didn’t sting nearly as much as the scene replaying in my mind.

Seven years ago. Our honeymoon on that private island. I had glanced—just once—at a man walking by. Nikolai had gone feral with jealousy. He kept me inside our suite for an entire week.

When the bed frame broke and we ran out of food deliveries, he held me tightly and whispered, “Camille, you don’t need anyone else. I’m enough for you. Promise me you won’t look at another man.”

I promised.

Again and again.

From that day on, I never so much as spared another man a second glance.

And now?

He was just as obsessive.

Only not about me.

I sank deeper into the water, forcing a shaky breath out of my lungs.

When I finally stepped out of the bathroom, Vanessa was gone. Nikolai sat alone in the living room, looking composed, as if nothing unusual had happened.

On the table in front of him was a neatly arranged plate of sliced fruit and a cup of ginger tea, steam still rising.

The sight made something inside me twist.

He stood and handed me the cup. “Your cycle’s coming soon,” he said gently. “This will ease the cramps.”

The warmth seeped into my hands, but inside, I felt nothing but cold.

Just minutes ago, he’d been all over her.

Now he was playing the attentive husband.

---

Sleep barely touched me that night. One thought kept circling my mind: how many versions of him exist?

Sometime before dawn, exhaustion must have pulled me under, because I jolted awake at the sound of my name.

“Camille!”

Nikolai shot upright, his hands reaching frantically through the darkness until he found me. He pulled me against him, holding me so tightly I could barely breathe.

“Don’t leave,” he muttered hoarsely. “Please… don’t walk away from me.”

I stiffened in his arms. “What are you talking about?”

His eyes were red, his breathing uneven. “I dreamed you left me. It felt like hell. I woke up and you were still here. Thank God.”

I looked down, words heavy in my chest. I almost told him that one day soon, that dream would be real.

But I said nothing.

Maybe that nightmare unsettled him, because the next morning he refused to let me out of his sight. He insisted on driving me to work himself, as if I might vanish the second he looked away.

When we entered his office, I stopped in my tracks.

His desk—no, the entire surface—was covered with photographs of me. Different outfits. Different days. Some angles I didn’t even recognize.

A chill ran down my spine.

Before I could react, I felt him behind me. His arms wrapped around my waist, his lips brushing the side of my neck.

“Camille,” he murmured softly, “women throw themselves at me all the time. But when I look at these, I remember who I belong to. You don’t have to doubt me. I’m yours.”

I stared at the photos, my mouth pressed into a thin line. I couldn’t find the strength to respond.

A knock interrupted us.

“Boss, the meeting’s about to begin,” Dante called from outside.

Nikolai exhaled reluctantly and held me a moment longer before letting go. “Stay here, baby. Walk around if you’re bored. I’ll be back soon.”

I nodded.

But the last place I wanted to stay was that office, surrounded by images of myself like some kind of shrine.

So I wandered instead. Floor after floor, pretending to look around, pretending to care.

Around noon, my phone vibrated in my hand. My pulse quickened when I saw the number.

“Ms. Camille Laurent,” a polite female voice said, “your immigration request has been approved. You may come to the consulate to collect your visa.”

I barely had time to react.

A familiar voice sounded behind me.

“Visa?”

The blood drained from my face.