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

After leaving the villa, I went straight to the design studio I founded three years ago.

Since childhood, I had been influenced by my father, exposed to countless rare and precious jewelry pieces. Naturally, I chose design as my major at university.

My dream had always been to open my own company—turning passion into art, and skill into achievement.

But Yves' coaxing—half sweet promises, half subtle pressure—derailed that path.

"I can't bear to see you work so hard."

"I'll take care of you."

"Why not just be the woman behind me?"

And so I became an unemployed "kept" woman—free, but hollow.

It wasn't until I casually posted a sketch on Instagram and someone bought it at a high price that the fire inside me reignited. That was when I created Lumina, my design studio. To me, it is proof that I still have value, that I am more than someone else's shadow.

Never again will I let anyone extinguish the flame of my dreams.

The next day, I spent the morning sketching designs at the studio. Yves didn't call to ask where I had slept, or whether I was coming home. That suited me just fine—his silence saved me the trouble.

By noon, I received an order for a ready-made necklace. The client specifically requested that I deliver it personally in the evening, payment on delivery.

It was strange, but money was money. Why turned it down?

That night, dressed casually in sportswear, I arrived at the designated location. It was a bar, seemingly booked out for a private event. Likely, the buyer was waiting inside.

The music wasn't too loud. A group of people gathered in the center, laughing and teasing as two people played some kind of game.

"Yves! Guess where Shontelle hid the playing card on her body?"

"Guess right and Shontelle will give you a special reward tonight!"

"You two are practically living together already, might as well call it marriage!"

"That woman, Marichelle, is just a block of wood. Poor Yves for enduring her all these years! Hahahaha!"

Every word stabbed my ears like a needle.

I stepped into the crowd, raising the small gift bag in my hand.

"Who here ordered a necklace?"

My voice wasn't loud, but it silenced the room instantly. Everyone here knew me. After all, I was the "block of wood" they had just mocked.

"Marichelle? What are you doing here?" Yves was the first to react. His expression instantly turned gloomy.

"Miss Marichelle, please don't misunderstand!" Shontelle quickly chimed in, her tone syrupy with innocence. "Our friends insisted on celebrating today—it's exactly 1,999 days since I met Mr. Perez. He didn’t want to make a big deal of it at first, he just thought cooking at home together would’ve been enough..."

Friends.

1,999 days.

Cooking at home.

She knew exactly where to stab. Because she understood—that was all I had ever wanted.

Instead, I had been nothing but their running joke for 1,999 days.

Clutching the jewelry box, I strode toward Shontelle. Yves immediately stepped in front of her, as though I might harm her.

"Shontelle," I said coldly, "you ordered this necklace, didn't you? If your intention was to show me just how much Yves cherishes you, then congratulations—you've wasted your effort. Because the moment he suggested a fake marriage with you, I was already done with him."

"Miss Marichelle, you really misunderstand," she said quickly, eyes wide with feigned innocence. "This necklace was only recommended by a friend. I had no idea it came from your studio."

She made sure to emphasize those last words—your studio.

Sure enough, Yves snatched the box from my hands and tore it open. He might dislike my work, but he knew my design style well. With one glance, he confirmed Shontelle's words were true.

"Marichelle, didn't you promise me you'd never work again? Is my allowance not enough for you? You could've just asked me for more money," he snarled.

With that, he tossed my necklace carelessly onto a table piled high with greasy snack wrappers and empty bottles.

And at that instant, I understood.

All his talk about love, about not wanting me to tire myself with work—it was never about me.

He just didn't want his wife to stand on her own two feet. He wanted me to become useless and dependent, so he could keep me locked in his palm forever.