Screw the Diamonds, I'm Done.

Until some day, everything shattered without warning.

A notification lit up my phone. It was an image of Wright's collar, carelessly tossed on a chair. The fabric was pristine, but what seized my attention was the faint, unmistakable smudge of crimson lipstick. Not my shade.

In that single moment, the harsh truth crashed down on me. There was another woman in his life. All the extravagant gifts—the jewels, the designer clothes, the spontaneous trips—they were just his currency for guilt, a silent apology after every betrayal.

As I stared at the lipstick stain, my phone vibrated. The screen showed his name—Wright, the man the world saw as the perfect husband.

"Darling," he started, his voice a familiar, warm baritone, "I bought you something to make up for missing our anniversary."

I looked up at the massive screen in Times Square where his face loomed over the adoring crowds, his every move a source of public envy. A wry smile twisted my lips.

"I appreciate the thought," I answered, my voice steady. "As it happens, I have something for you, too."

His surprise was palpable, even through the phone. "You do? Darling, you're unbelievable! I'm the one who messed up, and you still got a gift for me. I'm the luckiest man alive."

"You're welcome," I said, my voice a calm mask for the storm inside me. "I hope you like it."

That evening, I placed the carefully prepared divorce papers inside a custom-made wooden box, closing the lid with a decisive click.

This would be my offering to Wright.

Wright insisted I join him at a charity gala, demanding a grand public gesture. In front of an assembly of New York’s elite and a blinding wall of cameras, he presented me with the "Ocean's Heart," its deep blue fire reflected in the admiring eyes of everyone present.

He looked at me as if I were his entire universe. "Darling, happy tenth anniversary!" he declared, his voice full of a practiced affection.

I smiled but said nothing. I was acutely aware that our anniversary had been three days ago.

As he slid the ring onto my finger, he leaned in, his voice a low, intimate murmur against my ear. "Darling, I'm sorry. There was an urgent merger at the firm a few days ago—someone dropped the ball, and I had to clean up the mess."

I nodded, playing my part. His shoulders visibly relaxed, a wave of relief washing over him.

Applause erupted as we embraced for the cameras, projecting the perfect image of a blissful couple. But as his arms closed around me, I caught a faint, undeniable scent clinging to his suit jacket—a heady floral perfume no man would ever wear.

The scent of another woman.

I pulled back just enough to retrieve the small wooden box from my clutch. "I have something for you, as well," I said with a gentle smile, holding it out to him.

Intrigue sparked in his eyes as he took it, holding the box to his chest like a precious artifact. "Open it in fourteen days," I added, my tone light. "It will be a wonderful surprise."

His smile widened, his eyes crinkling with anticipation. "Our annual tradition? You've always been so wonderfully sentimental. I still remember our promise at Yale to create a piece of art for each other every year, to keep the spark alive."

He let out a wistful sigh. "It's been a decade since we started dating. Darling, you're incredible—you never forget the little things. I am so blessed to have you."

I smiled and nodded, keeping the mask firmly in place.

For the past ten years, I had indeed created a piece of art for him annually, just as he said. But they remained hidden in my studio, gathering dust instead of creating memories. Now, I realized those pieces deserved the same fate as my feelings—a quiet, final end.

The guests around us sighed in admiration, their voices dripping with playful envy.

"Mr. Charlotte, you and your wife are the definition of true love! A decade together and still so romantic!"

Another guest chimed in, feigning a pout, "Please, Mr. Charlotte, stop flaunting your perfect life! The rest of us can't compete!"

Wright laughed, a deep, hearty sound, and pulled me closer, his arm possessive around my shoulders. Cameras flashed, capturing our "perfect" moment. Within minutes, the photos would flood social media, painting a glossy, beautiful lie.

Yet amid the sea of smiling faces, one stood out—Lucia Reed, Wright's personal assistant. Her lips were pressed into a thin, tight line, her expression a careful mask of neutrality, but her eyes burned with a barely concealed fury.

After the spectacle, Wright leaned close, his breath warm against my skin. "Let's celebrate properly. I'll take you to that new private club everyone's dying to get into."

I nodded, maintaining my smile, and excused myself to the powder room.

As I refreshed my makeup, a conversation drifted in from the corridor.

"Did you see that blue diamond ring tonight? My God, it's breathtaking—fifty million dollars! Mr. Charlotte really spares no expense for his wife!"

"Ugh, I'm so jealous. When will I find a man who treats me like that?"

Amid the excited chatter, a sharp scoff cut through the air.