She Wasted Our Love, I Lost My Love

My wife was a woman with billions of networth. Yet, I dreamed of divorcing her every single day. On paper, she was the kind of woman every man would kill to have.

It all started when my mother fell gravely ill. Her last wish was simple: she wanted to see Freya and her grandson one last time. That day, I dropped everything and rushed home.

What I found wasn't the reunion she’d hoped for instead. When I opened the bedroom door, I saw them, Freya and her first love, together in our bed and very much naked.

I didn't say a word. Just closed the door quietly and left.

I buried my mother alone, in silence. After the funeral, I stepped outside, dialed Freya's number and calmly asked for a divorce.

But it wasn't her voice that answered. It was his, the first love.

"Sorry, Mr. Sauerbeck," the man said with a mocking chuckle. "She's resting right now. Just fell asleep, actually—I happened to help her a bit for that. Hope you don’t mind not disturbing her."

I didn't flinch. "Tell her we’re done," I said flatly.

He gave a dry laugh. "I’ll make sure she gets the message."

——

A few days later, Freya came back from a business trip.

When she walked through the door, I didn’t get up to greet her. Didn’t smile. Didn’t speak. I just sat there, watching TV, like she was a stranger.

"Go pick out a pajama set for me," she said, already peeling off her clothes as she headed to the shower. "I'm exhausted."

The apartment was silent. There was nobody else but us and the soft rustling of her designer clothes hitting the floor one by one, revealing the body I used to worship. Skin like porcelain, curves like art.

Once upon a time, I’d have leapt at the chance to please her—followed her into the bathroom, offered to scrub her back, begged for her attention.

But nothing of that like happened now. There wasn't even a flicker of desire in my heart.

Freya finished her shower and stepped out in a cloud of steam. When she saw me still sitting there, unmoved, she frowned.

"Where's my clothes?" she asked. "Just get the one with the cartoon print—you used to like that one."

I turned to her, voice calm and steady. "When are we getting divorced?"

She scoffed. "Don’t be ridiculous. That night you called, it was late. I was already asleep."

She dried her hair, not even looking at me. "Alfred just answered for me. He's my assistant, that’s his job. I already told him not to overstep again. You’re not seriously jealous, are you?"

"Jealous?"

She still thought I was the same man. Still thought I cared. She had no idea how far gone I was.

“Alright,” Freya said with a sigh. “Go get my pajamas, will you? I’m really tired. Let’s just go to bed early tonight. Tomorrow we’ll visit your mother at the hospital.”

Her words stabbed through me like ice.

I looked at her with indiference. “Visit my mother? Where exactly do you plan on visiting her?”

She blinked, caught off guard by the question. “At the hospital, obviously.”

Then, as if trying to sound helpful, she added, “Oh, by the way, while I was out of town I looked into some options. There's a clinic in Dracopolis—really good care. I could have someone arrange the transfer. It would be better for her, long-term…”

“My mother is dead!” I cut her off mid-sentence, unable to hold it back any longer. I shouted it.

Freya flinched like I’d slapped her.

She stared at me, stunned. For a second, I think she thought I was lying.

“W-What? Your mother… why didn’t I know about this?” she stammered.

Of course she didn’t know.

When my mother passed, she was here—wrapped in silk sheets with another man, moaning his name. Not a single thought in her head for the woman who raised me.

“Does it even matter anymore whether you knew?” I asked, my voice colder than steel. “When she was still alive, all she wanted was to see you. One last time. But you—you know damn well what you were doing.”

I took a step closer, my eyes locked on hers.

“And now, when her eyes are closed forever, now you want to play the devoted daughter-in-law? What’s the point of this act?”

Freya stood frozen in silence. Without replying, she turned and walked into the dressing room.

A moment later, she reappeared—wearing the cartoon-print pajama set. The one I used to say made her look cute. The one she knew I liked.

She stood across the room, looking at me with a faint, almost childlike sadness.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I really didn’t know.”

Then she turned and walked quietly into the bedroom.