Today was our anniversary. Our third wedding anniversary.
I spent the entire afternoon preparing—cooking the dishes he liked, arranging candles, and decorating the beach house with soft lights. I wanted tonight to be peaceful for him. I wanted him to want to be here.
But Mark never showed up.
“Ma’am Elizabeth,” one of the guards called softly.
I turned toward him, already knowing what he was going to say.
“I received word that Sir Mark is still in a late-night meeting.”
I nodded, forcing a smile that didn’t reach my eyes. “Call the others.”
He blinked. “Ma’am?”
“Call the rest of the security team. Let them eat. It’ll be a waste to throw everything away.”
I didn’t wait for his answer. I walked toward the shoreline, the quiet waves crashing against the sand. The wind felt colder tonight.
“He didn’t show up again,” I whispered to myself.
The tears came before I could stop them. Hot and humiliating, they slid down my cheeks as I stared at the endless sea. A moment later, a voice broke through the sound of the waves.
“Are you alright?”
I looked up. A man stood there—barefoot, sun-kissed skin, wearing nothing but beach trunks. He crouched down to my level.
“Why are you crying alone by the sea?” he asked, brows pulling together. “Are you hurt?”
I shook my head quickly. “No… I’m fine.”
He smiled, gentle but firm. “Do you have a problem? If you need someone to listen, I’m right here.”
And for some reason—maybe loneliness, maybe exhaustion—I found myself telling him everything. My marriage. The broken promises. The emptiness.
When I finished, he didn’t hesitate.
“Then ask for a divorce.”
My head snapped toward him. “What?”
“You said it yourself—you’re not happy. You’re hurting. He doesn’t look at you, doesn’t spend time with you. Why stay in a marriage that’s killing you little by little?” he said simply. “Your parents are gone. You don’t owe anyone your pain.”
I couldn’t answer. Because deep inside, I knew he was right.
“Ask for divorce,” he repeated. “And even if he refuses, make him agree. You deserve to be happy.”
Then he stood up and offered a hand, eyes steady on mine.
“Would you rather live your whole life in pain… or fight for your freedom?”
The next morning, back in the mansion, I stood in front of the mirror and fixed myself. For the first time in years, I dressed for myself. A bold lipstick. A fitted blouse hugging my curves. A skirt that made me feel alive again.
A knock sounded.
“Ma’am Elizabeth?”
“Yes?”
“Sir Mark has arrived. He’s requesting breakfast with you.”
“Alright. I’ll be down shortly.”
I looked at my reflection one last time.
It’s time. Time to choose myself.
At the dining table, Mark was already there—with his assistant beside him, as usual. He paused mid-bite when he saw me.
“Good morning,” he murmured, eyes narrowing as he studied me. “You look… different today.”
I didn’t respond. I simply sat down and ate silently.
Halfway through dessert, I cleared my throat.
“Do you mind asking your assistant to leave? I have something important to discuss.”
Mark frowned but nodded for his assistant to step out.
“What is it that you can’t say in front of him?” he asked, confused.
I pressed my lips together. My heart hammered.
Then I said it.
“Let’s get a divorce.”
His spoon paused mid-air. He lowered it slowly, as if he needed time to process what he heard.
“What?”
“I said, let’s get a divorce.” My voice didn’t shake.
He stared at me, as though searching my expression for doubt or hesitation.
His jaw tightened. His fist clenched.
“You’re asking for a divorce. After our anniversary?” he said, anger licking his voice.
I let out a humorless chuckle. “Our marriage was doomed long before that. I was just stupid enough to hold on for three years.”
“I want a divorce,” I repeated, steady and sure.
Mark dropped his utensils and stood up abruptly. He turned away, but I stepped in front of him, blocking his path.
“Mark, listen to me. I don’t want anything. Not a cent. Not alimony. Just… please. Please sign the divorce papers.”
“No.”
My chest tightened. “Why won’t you let me go?” I cried out. “You never look at me. You never make time for me. I’m the only one fighting for this marriage.”
“Who told you that?”
“What?” My brows knitted in confusion.
But he didn’t explain. Instead, he dragged a hand through his hair, frustrated.
“Mark,” I whispered, voice cracking, “please. Consider this my anniversary gift. Let me go.”
He shook his head again.
“No.”
My knees gave out. I sank to the floor, sobbing as he walked away from me without another word.
And for the first time, I realized I had enough of this pain.
