My Sentence for Her Crime

To honor the concealed marriage agreement, Lilian moved out of our bedroom and into the guest room.

She laid down the law with cold clarity: no riding to work together, no speaking at the office unless I addressed her as "Boss," and whatever was going on with Nathan was just for show—I wasn't to read into it.

After drawing that line in the sand, she vanished for three days.

It wasn't until I called in sick, burning up with fever, that she finally bothered to call.

"Taking a sick day after just a few days on the job? Don't be dramatic. You'll have to get yourself to the hospital. I'm on a business trip—I don't have time to babysit you."

Exactly what I'd expected.

Half-delirious, I managed a weak, "Yeah."

Then, a man's voice—unmistakably Nathan's—cut through the receiver, clear and intimate. "Lilian, come help me with my tie!"

The line went dead before I could speak, but not before I heard the quick scuff of her footsteps, hurrying to him.

I opened Instagram. Nathan's new profile picture was a perfect match for Lilian's. A set.

I remembered all the times I'd begged her to use a couple's photo when we were together. She always refused, calling it juvenile, tacky, lacking class.

Now, she'd done it willingly. With him.

My phone soon lit up with a barrage of her calls and messages.

I replied just once: [On my approved sick leave. I'll be sure to follow up when I'm back, Boss.]

After finishing my IV drip, I dragged my fever-weakened body back to the office. My colleagues barely glanced my way. They piled work onto my desk like always. To them, I wasn't a coworker—just an ex-con the boss had pitied, which meant I should be grateful for the extra load.

Gritting my teeth, I opened my locker and began stuffing every relic of our relationship—the matching mugs, the framed photos, the silly keychains—into a black trash bag. If I'd known she wanted our love story kept in the shadows, I'd never have brought any of it into the light.

I was just about to toss the bag when Lilian stormed in.

Without a word, she seized my wrist and dragged me into the stairwell.

Her eyes darkened when she saw the bag in my hand. "You have time to take out the trash, but not to answer my calls?"

The sharp, expensive scent of a man's cologne on her made me step back instinctively. "I replied," I said flatly.

That was all it took. Lilian erupted. "Why did you call me 'Boss' in your text?"

What was the difference? She was the one who made the rule. Why was she angry when I followed it?

Seeing my silence as defiance, she let out a cold laugh. "You know I can't stand petty, jealous men. Don't become someone I despise."

Then she snatched the bag from my grasp and hurled it to the ground.

The crash of shattering glass and ceramic echoed in the concrete space. Without a backward glance, she turned and walked away, her heels clicking sharply down the stairs.

I looked at the shattered photo frames and cracked mugs scattered across the tiles. It felt like our past had broken apart with them.

With numb fingers, I gathered the pieces. Then I called my lawyer and had him draft a divorce agreement.

When the papers were ready, I printed a copy and went to her office.

I raised my hand to knock, but the door swung open before I could.

Her cold eyes met mine. I kept my voice steady as I held out the folder. "Sign this when you have a moment."

Without even reading the title, Lilian flipped to the last page and scrawled her signature.

Then, in a tone as calm as if she'd just approved a routine memo, she handed it back. "Good. You're coming with me to an event tonight. Make yourself useful—you'll be drinking for me."

I frowned. Lilian could drink most people under the table. Why would she need me?

Before I could ask, Nathan stepped out from behind her, a smug grin plastered on his face. "Wow, Boss, you remembered! I'm on meds and can't touch a drop. You're a lifesaver."