After My Husband's Fake Marriage With His Secretary, I Left Him

I got up early, slipping out of the house before Yves even woke up.

Partly because I didn't want to see him, but mostly because I had preparations to make. A man who betrays his marriage must pay the price!

On the way to the law firm, my phone buzzed. Yves' name flashed on the screen.

The moment I answered, his voice roared so loudly I nearly dropped the phone.

"Where did you go so early? Couldn't even say goodbye?"

"I didn't want to disturb your sleep," I replied casually, feeding him a flimsy excuse. Without solid evidence in hand, I couldn't afford to expose what I knew just yet.

Sure enough, my answer pacified him. His tone eased almost instantly.

"When are you coming back? You haven't made me breakfast."

Tch. How laughable.

He could notice there was no breakfast waiting, yet never once did he care whether I had eaten before leaving.

Yves had always loved one person—only himself.

"I didn't eat either. Buy something for yourself. I'm hanging up." I couldn't be bothered to entertain him further.

"Hey—last night you didn't wait for me, and now you can't even make breakfast? You used to—" He stopped short, but I knew exactly what he was about to say.

I used to wake up early every morning, preparing his breakfast. If he was running late, I'd pack it neatly for him to take along—dutiful, meticulous, like some live-in maid.

He took all of it for granted. And the moment I stopped, suddenly I was the one in the wrong.

"Yves, you have hands and feet. Do it yourself. I am not your maid."

I ended the call without waiting for a response.

Half a minute later, a text came through.

[Marichelle, I've never treated you like a maid. I love you. You'll always be my wife.]

[By the way, I'll be on a business trip to California next week. Send the first row of clothes from my closet to the dry cleaner, and buy me a new white suit—the finest quality.]

California...

It was Shontelle's hometown.

So, he wanted me to personally prepare the groom's suit he'd wear to marry her.

Later that morning, I was jolted awake by noise from the living room. At first, I ignored it, but after over an hour of racket, I had no choice.

When I finally emerged, I nearly laughed out loud.

The sleek black-and-white modern style of our living room vanished overnight. In its place, colorful flowers and white drapes flowing across every corner, the furniture replaced with bright, festive pieces. The room no longer felt like a home—it resembled a wedding hall.

And there he stood—Yves—dressed in a pristine white suit, clutching a bouquet, rehearsing poses as if he were the star of some romantic photo shoot. Ridiculous, and yet he wore such a serious expression.

The moment he spotted me, he straightened up and feigned calmness.

"Oh, you're home. This is just for work. I hired some people to take pictures here. It'll be done soon. Why don't you head out—shopping, a walk, whatever. I'll call when it's over."

He hadn't even realized I was in the house. If he'd bothered to check the shoe rack, he would have known. But no—he'd rather order me to disappear for a day just to indulge his whims.

"You can shoot your photos. I won't—"

I didn't get to finish. The guest room door swung open, and Shontelle stepped out in a haute couture wedding gown, cheeks blushing as she twirled shyly.

"Yves, does this dress look good on me? I still feel the first one you picked at the bridal shop looked better... Ah—"

Her words faltered when she finally noticed me standing there.

"M-Marichelle..."