After Dahlia cheated. It was pure, pathetic retaliation. In six months, I dated maybe ten different women. Ten temporary shields, ten strangers I used to generate enough anger to finally break something. The night I broke it off with the tenth woman—a graduate student in art history—I finally brought up the divorce with Dahlia. “Gabriel.” Dahlia finished typing a reply, finally looking up. “Is this another one of your tantrums? This must be… what? The fourth time this month?” She gave a small, mocking smile. “What, the latest distraction didn't satisfy you? Has the great, placid Mr. Miller finally gotten his heart stirred up enough to start making demands?” Dahlia grabbed her jacket. “I don't have time for this, Gabriel. I have plans tonight.” I watched her, still unable to comprehend it. How could a woman compartmentalize love and sex so completely? “Dahlia,” I said, stepping in front of the door, blocking her exit. I held out the signed agreement. My voice was eerily calm. “I’m serious. Let’s stop doing this to each other.” 1 “Gabriel, please.” Dahlia’s expression was lazily dismissive. “I really can’t play this game right now.” She held up her phone, displaying a text thread. “The kid’s going to throw a fit.” Her voice softened, her eyes full of a tenderness she no longer showed me. “You know how hard he is to placate, Gabriel.” The screen showed a cheesy, synchronized profile photo. Her current fling. The latest message was a demanding, pouty emoji followed by a complaint: Jude Ryder: How much longer are you going to spend with the old man? Jude Ryder: You said he had a girlfriend now. What, are you finally admitting the fossil is better in bed? Are you suddenly desperate for a romantic reunion? He was openly mocking my age. Dahlia only laughed, typing a reply: Dahlia: Stop being so ridiculously jealous. The phone immediately rang with an incoming voice call. The sudden, jarring sound sliced through the tension between us. “See?” Dahlia said, gesturing at the screen. “Gabriel, I really am busy.” She pressed Answer right in front of me. A high, petulant voice immediately filled the room. “Dahlia!” “I’m outside your house. Now.” “You have three seconds.” “If you don’t come out, we are over!” I listened to his ridiculous ultimatum, watching Dahlia’s face freeze for a split second before she laughed, the warmth returning to her voice. “My little king,” she cooed into the phone. “My husband is home. Are you actually trying to get him to hack you to pieces?” She paused for dramatic effect. “If he really does lay a hand on you, don’t come crying to me.” She was flirting, completely unconcerned by my presence. “You won’t let him,” Jude insisted. “You promised you’d protect me!” I knew what I should do. I should be silent. I should let her leave, give her the space she demanded. Everyone told me the same thing: as long as I was Dahlia Beaumont’s husband, I was set for life—wealth, status, everything. Even my critically ill father, hanging on by a thread in the hospital, would get the best possible care. But I couldn’t hold it in anymore. I snatched the phone from her hand. Dahlia stared at me, astonished. I put the phone to my ear. “He’s right,” I snapped at the voice on the other end. “Gabriel Miller is dangerous. You come through that door, and I’ll make sure you get carried out!” Ignoring his scream of disbelief and his high-pitched torrent of abuse, I threw the phone—shattering it against the marble floor—and yanked open the mahogany door. Jude Ryder’s face, already red, turned white. I didn’t hesitate. I raised my hand and slapped him across the face. “Do you even know what you are?” My voice was harsh, but my expression was vacant. “As long as I’m standing here, you’re nothing but a pathetic, temporary side-piece.” I grabbed a handful of his perfect blonde hair and slammed his head against the door frame. The hollow thud made him shriek. “You psycho! Dahlia! DAHLIA! You’re just going to let him assault me?!” I lifted my hand, ready for a second strike, when my wrist was suddenly caught. Dahlia’s voice, coming from behind me, was dangerously light. “Gabriel, aren’t you being just a little too unrefined?” 2 Dahlia’s voice was still layered with that soft amusement, yet I heard the steel-cold warning underneath. “The kid is at a sensitive age,” Dahlia said. “He cares about his looks. If you bruise his face, it’s only going to be more trouble for you, isn’t it?” Her tone was casual, but the grip on my wrist tightened, forcing me to release Jude. “We’ll call this incident an overreaction on his part,” she continued. “But if there’s a next time…” Her gaze darkened, resting heavy on me. “Gabriel, my patience is not infinite.” She pulled Jude into a tight hug, fussing over him carefully. “It doesn’t hurt, baby. Shh.” He clung to her, sobbing hysterically. Dahlia began to lead him away, but I spoke, the words stopping her mid-step. “Dahlia.” She paused. I pursued them, catching up to them at the end of the driveway. “If you’re so enamored,” I said, looking right at Jude’s tear-streaked face. “Give him a title.” I leaned in close to Jude’s ear and smiled without warmth. “It’s not me refusing to step aside. It’s your wonderful girlfriend who won't let me go. If you’re really worth a damn,” I dropped the final, pointed sentence, “make her agree to let you walk through the door, just like she did for me all those years ago.” Jude’s body went rigid. His eyes darted to Dahlia, suddenly fearful. Dahlia sighed, a picture of weary frustration, and walked back toward me. “Gabriel.” Her tone was flat. “Don’t regret this.” She signed the divorce papers on the hood of my car, then immediately turned back to Jude, cooing. “Happy now?” Jude sobbed with relief and wrapped his arms around her. His eyes, however, were locked on mine—a silent, arrogant confrontation. He was gloating. He had won. I ignored them both. The crushing weight on my chest had finally lifted. I couldn’t describe the feeling. It wasn’t triumph. It was just empty. I sat alone in the vast, echoing villa, watching the moving company workers carefully clean out my belongings. My phone chimed. It was a video message from Jude. In the clip, Dahlia was on one knee, kissing Jude’s hand. The gesture was worshipful, as if he were the most precious thing in the world. “Jude,” she said. “My feelings for you are not fleeting. I’ll give you the commitment and the ceremony you need.” She pulled out a diamond—a vulgar, massive thing—and slipped it onto his finger. “Are you pleased?” Jude, sobbing and laughing, immediately texted me: Jude Ryder: Everyone says Dahlia loved you. That she defied the entire Beaumont dynasty just to marry you. That she knelt in the family chapel for seven days without food, took a beating from her brother, just so they’d finally agree. Jude Ryder: And that your dying father is only alive because she hired the best medical team on the continent. Jude Ryder: But you don’t know the truth, do you? He sent another video. The lighting was low, the atmosphere thick. It was a private club Dahlia frequented. Every face in the clip was familiar—her usual circle of wealthy, bored friends. I heard a man ask, “Dahlia, this mess with Gabriel. What’s the point?” Dahlia sat in the center of the sofa, idly spinning my simple wedding band on her finger. The man continued: “He’s been out there, what, five women now? Aren't you worried he’ll contract something or just... get dirty? Why are you just letting him run wild?” 3 Dahlia remained silent. It was Jude who threw a glass against the wall in a fit of pique. “See? You still love him!” he screamed. “You love that old man! If you love him, why the hell are you with me?” Jude stood up to storm out. Dahlia finally rose, pulling him onto her lap with a practiced ease, and answered the room. “Why would I love him?” Dahlia’s voice was lazy, utterly devoid of emotion. “Gabriel isn't actually cheating. The women he’s been seeing are props. Tools for a performance, meant to make me angry. I know him better than anyone.” She paused, taking a slow sip of her drink. “If he ever actually slept with someone else—if he could actually go that far—he wouldn't be Gabriel.” The room erupted in laughter. Jude pouted. “You just say that! Do you have security footage? You don't know anything!” Jude’s childish, possessive tone made Dahlia smile. She placed her phone on the table. “See for yourself.” On the screen, a folder held every single chat log and video from every single date I’d been on with those ten women. Every miserable, empty interaction was meticulously cataloged in her personal file. Dahlia’s voice, as it explained the file, was flat. It was the detached analysis of a scientist examining a specimen. “Men,” she said. “They like to argue. Gabe wants to play? I let him play. Sure, he started out looking for someone who would understand his pain. But for him to actually follow through—” Dahlia tapped the screen, pulling up one video. It was my third girlfriend trying to kiss me, and me pushing her away, apologizing profusely. “I can’t do this. I’m sorry.” I remember telling her we had to break up immediately after. Dahlia pointed to the video. “Gabriel. He’s fundamentally traditional. A stickler for morality. He couldn't do it. This whole performance was just him trying to punish me.” She tapped her WeChat again, showing a message from my seventh 'girlfriend.' 7th GF: Dahlia, just as you predicted, I brought up going to a hotel, and he looked disgusted. He accused me of only wanting his body and broke up with me. 7th GF: Should I keep trying to corner him? I remember that woman. She was a fellow artist. We connected over painting and shared a silly love for graphic novels. But less than two months in, she suggested we "go back to her place." When her hand touched my shoulder, trying to pull me closer, I felt a violent, conditioned reaction. I threw up on the spot and ended it right there. That night, I staggered back to the villa, humiliated and defeated. Dahlia was waiting in the living room. Her expression was a smirk of satisfied contempt. She was drinking in my shame. I felt a wave of self-loathing, the realization that I was utterly incapable of walking away from my own emotional boundaries. I collapsed and started to cry. But Dahlia surprised me by embracing me. “Gabriel,” she whispered. “Do you want to keep playing?” The scent of a stranger’s cheap cologne clung to her. When I looked up, I saw the fading red marks on her neck. A wave of nausea hit me, and I projectile vomited all over her. Dahlia instantly recoiled, her face etched with pure disgust. She tore off the expensive coat and threw it at my feet. “Gabriel, when are you going to stop with the theatrics?” “Yes, I cheated! But I gave you everything! You went from a dirt-poor nobody to the husband of Dahlia Beaumont! Who doesn't envy you? What do you have to complain about?” I looked up at Dahlia, so high above me, so utterly alien. That was the moment my self-control shattered. “Dahlia,” I screamed, hysterical. “We’re getting divorced.” I cried until I choked. “Dahlia, let me go.” 4 She didn’t agree. She just watched me, coldly, as I fell apart, and then delivered the final blow. “Gabriel.” “You can forget about yourself. But what about your father?” She was right. My father was still in the ICU. The entire medical team, the specialized equipment—it was all thanks to Dahlia. For his sake, I had to endure. I had no choice but to wait. I waited until today. Now, watching Jude’s messages roll in, I opened the latest video he’d sent. Dahlia, clearly drunk, was clinging to Jude. “Gabriel will never divorce me,” she slurred. “Even if he wants to, he won’t. Not because of me. It’s because of his father. Because of his father, no matter how cruel I am, he can only endure.” A dull, familiar ache started in my chest. I knew our marriage was over, but being reminded that my father was my leash still cut me to the bone. I heard Jude ask her why. She laughed, a short, sharp sound. “I have a secret. One Gabriel never knew.” She beckoned Jude closer, lowering her voice. “Gabriel’s father always had a chance to get better. If he went overseas, they estimated an eighty percent recovery rate. But I refused. And I locked down every piece of information.” A bolt of pure, freezing terror shot through me. My hand shook violently as I held the phone. I heard Dahlia's ice-cold voice: “I sealed off all the news. I didn't want Gabriel to know. I wanted to make sure he would never, ever be able to leave me.” “Gabriel, he…” The rest of the sentence was lost in a rush of white noise. Tears streamed down my face. I pressed a hand over my mouth, stifling a desperate sob. I thought back to when my father fell—crippled while foraging for herbs to pay my college tuition. The years he had spent lying unconscious, my constant, gnawing guilt. I remembered my utter devastation, the night I wanted to end my own life. And Dahlia appeared. The high and mighty socialite, standing before me, holding me tightly. “Don’t be afraid, Gabriel. You have me. You don’t have to fear anything.” Dahlia had caught my fall. She managed my collapse, took charge of my entire future. She provided the medical team, paid my tuition, and shielded me from the world. Dahlia created the Gabriel Miller of then. And Dahlia destroyed the Gabriel Miller of now. My phone rang wildly. The hospital. My heart seized. I didn’t even manage to answer before Jude’s cruel, mocking voice came through WeChat. Jude Ryder: Too bad for you. Your dad found out the whole truth and seems to have decided he doesn't want to live anymore. The next frame was a video of my father, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. I collapsed, hitting Answer. “Mr. Miller.” The doctor’s silence stretched, suffocating. I couldn’t believe my own ears. The world shrank to a pinpoint, and the only sound was the frantic thump of my own heart. “My dad…” “What happened to my dad—” “Your father passed away today at 6:35 PM.” “Please, Mr. Miller.” “Our condolences.” Dahlia hadn’t been sober for days. Everyone knew the Beaumont heiress was outwardly gracious but inwardly merciless. She had only ever had one weakness. Gabriel Miller. “Gabriel…” Dahlia’s eyes snapped open. She roughly raked a hand through her hair, grabbing the phone that wouldn't stop ringing. She barked into it, her voice thick with irritation. “This better be important!” “Ms. Beaumont…” The voice on the other end was stammering, unable to form a coherent sentence. Dahlia’s eyelid twitched. A sickening wrenching sensation hit her chest. She didn't even have time to register the panic before her assistant’s trembling voice finally broke through. “Mr. Miller… his father passed away last night.”
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