Her Best Friend Broke Our Marriage

When the company’s growth stalled, Michelle grew frustrated and often invited me for walks and long talks by the river.

Through these moments, we naturally grew closer, and I invested some of my own money into the business, acquiring a two percent stake.

As the company expanded, Michelle’s net worth skyrocketed. I proposed, and she said yes.

Three months before the wedding, she brought Maxwell from her hometown, saying it would help him pursue his medical studies. To celebrate his arrival, she even transferred my shares to him.

We had a fierce argument about it.

Maybe that’s when the rift between us began.

I woke up drenched in sweat and tears.

At some point, Michelle had returned. She saw my packed luggage by the door and looked irritated.

“What now? Wasn’t yesterday’s outburst at the company enough? You want to make a scene again?”

I rinsed my face with cold water and left the spare key on the sink.

“I’m moving out for a while. Did you sign the divorce papers?”

“You’re serious about this divorce?”

Her face dropped instantly, eyes turning icy cold.

“All because of a fake exam? I know it wasn’t real. I don’t even care.”

I said nothing.

How absurd.

After eight years together, she still didn’t know why I suddenly wanted a divorce.

She paused, then said, “Did my dad say something to you? Just endure it for now. Sophia is being considered for the Best Doctor award. Once he wins, I’ll explain everything to your family.”

“No need.”

Once the divorce is done, I’ll restore my name myself.

If I wait for her to explain, I know what she’ll say: “Let it go. Everyone believes it anyway.”

I used to think I understood Michelle.

My eyes landed on the gift she was holding—a watch from a niche foreign brand.

She snorted and tossed it at my feet.

“Sophia picked it for you. He’s more thoughtful than you.”

I didn’t pick it up. I just gave a cold smile.

Michelle snapped and called me uncultured.

The irony deepened.

If I recall, this exact watch appeared on her Instagram Moments at the end of last month.

“Michelle, you pride yourself on manners. Have you ever seen someone give a used gift? Or throw one at someone’s feet?”

I hooked the ribbon with an umbrella from the hallway, opened the box, and pulled out the watch—already damaged from scraping against an old dial.

The hands had stopped moving.

“It’s worn out.”

I looked up at her. Her eyes flickered with guilt.

“This watch isn’t flashy. Katherine Quinn works with patients every day—she just wore it briefly. Why make a fuss?”

I laughed.

I didn’t expose her lie, nor did I scroll back through her Moments to find the post.

Before leaving, I said one last thing.

“Just sign already. This is getting tedious.”

Not long after I moved into my friend’s place, Maxwell posted a new Instagram update.

As if afraid I’d miss it, he even tagged me.

“Why do good women always meet the wrong men? If it were me, I’d never let her struggle to balance her career and home.”

The post showed Michelle, slightly tipsy, staring out a floor-to-ceiling window at the night view.

For the next two weeks, Maxwell’s Instagram feed never stopped.