I Divorce With My Husbands Pretends To Be dead

I'm Brian Locke.

The day Sophia Reed and I got married, Stella Shaw cornered her three times.

I stood in the corner of the banquet hall, watching through the crowd as Stella Shaw grabbed her wrist, his mouth moving close to her ear. Sophia's expression went from annoyance to sneering disdain. Finally, she pushed him away and walked toward me, her dress brushing the roses in the hallway, leaving a trail of perfume.

Later, I pieced together what Stella Shaw had said from gossip-he'd called me too stiff, said I must be boring in bed, that Sophia needed "a real fire."

"Who's the fire? You?" she'd shot back, her voice dripping with contempt.

That reckless bastard Stella Shaw had winked and smiled, not answering directly. Instead, he'd left a bet: "Shea, I bet you two will split in five years. If I win, give me a chance first."

I'd been adjusting my tie, listening to all this, my fingers tightening unconsciously. Sophia walked up to me, the disdain for Stella Shaw still in her eyes. She looked up at me, her gaze brighter than the chandeliers: "Ignore him. We'll be fine."

I grunted in response. I didn't tell her that Stella Shaw's line-"I'm still single, so yeah, I mean it"-had stung like a tiny needle.

Five years later, I was peeling an apple for Joanne Morgan when Sophia called.

Her voice came through the phone, cold and hard-a tone I'd never heard before: "I'll divorce you in a month. But I don't want love. I just need a guy to mess around with for a while-let loose."

Stella Shaw's loud laugh came through the line, his pride obvious even over the static: "Perfect! Baby, I'm in!"

My hand froze mid-peel. The strip of apple skin broke. Joanne Morgan leaned over, pressing her hand gently on mine: "Brian Locke, what's wrong?"

"Nothing." I handed her the peeled apple. The phone screen was still lit, Sophia Reed's name glowing like a piece of ice, making my fingers tingle.

The next day was the anniversary of Sophia's mother's death.

I was flipping through documents in the hospital room when Joanne Morgan, scrolling through sofas on her phone, leaned over, her voice soft: "Brian Locke, which sofa do you think fits better in the villa you gave me? Sit and try one-help me decide."

My phone suddenly vibrated. Seeing "Sophia Reed" flash on the screen made me frown. When I answered, her voice was like ice: "Your parents are at my place acting crazy. Come get them right now-it's my mom's death anniversary!"

I looked at the iced milk tea in Joanne Morgan's hand and said without thinking: "I can't... leave the hospital right now."

"Brian Locke~ Which sofa do you think fits better in the villa you gave me? Sit and try one-help me decide." Joanne Morgan's voice drifted into the receiver, deliberately sweet and coquettish.

I noticed the lipstick stain on her straw, took the milk tea away: "You shouldn't have cold drinks right now."

As soon as I spoke, the line went dead-Sophia had hung up.

I stood there holding the phone. Joanne Morgan tugged at my sleeve timidly: "Did I say something wrong? Did I make Ms. Jade angry?"

"It's not your fault." I stuffed the phone in my pocket, but an odd restlessness stirred in me.

Fifteen minutes later, I pushed open the door of our house and found Sophia swinging a baseball bat at the dressing room mirror.

Glass shards flew. Her profile was cold as jade, sweat sticking stray hairs to her forehead. Margaret Locke screamed beside her, pointing at the mess: "My jewelry! My bags!"

"Are you done throwing a tantrum?" I rushed over and grabbed her wrist. She was surprisingly strong- the bat hit the floor with a dull thud.

Sophia panted, looking up at me, bloodshot eyes like a spiderweb: "Finally got free, huh? Showed up pretty fast-less than fifteen minutes."

She wrenched her hand away and turned to leave. Joanne Morgan, who'd followed me without me noticing, peeked in from the door. When she saw Sophia, she hurried to apologize: "I'm so sorry. I held Brian Locke up with something. He didn't mean to ignore you..."

Sophia walked straight ahead. But Joanne Morgan kept saying "sorry" as she stepped back-then suddenly yelped and fell to the floor, clutching her stomach, her face twisted: "Ah... my stomach hurts so bad..."

"Morgan." My heart skipped a beat. I rushed over and lifted her into my arms. As I turned, my elbow accidentally hit Sophia.

It was a light tap, like a feather. But she swayed and dropped to her knees.

The sound of her knees hitting the floor was sickening. She hung her head, her dark hair hiding her face, only her shoulders shaking slightly. Her hands were on the floor, knuckles white.

I frowned at her, a strange irritation rising. Stella Shaw's words popped into my head-Sophia needs a fire. She's wild at heart.

"Are you faking this to frame Morgan? Trying to play the victim?" I couldn't help but snap, my voice cold as ice.

Margaret Locke snickered: "Yeah, stop pretending!"

Sophia slowly lifted her head. Her forehead was covered in sweat, her lips as white as paper. She didn't look at me-instead, she turned to Margaret, tugging at her mouth in what looked like a smile, or maybe a cry: "I put up with you before because I cared about Brian Locke. Now I don't even care about him-why would I care about you?"

She grabbed the doorframe and stood up slowly, moving like a marionette. Margaret kept rambling: "Morgan's so gentle. She's perfect for Brian Locke."

"Sure," Sophia nodded, gasping for breath, each word sharp as a knife edge: "A family that leeches off the Jade family's money and shows no gratitude deserves a daughter-in-law who's nothing but a cheap hooker."

My arms tightened around Joanne Morgan. She whimpered in pain.

Sophia's gaze swept over me, like I was a stranger. Then she turned and walked out of the house we'd shared for five years. Sunlight poured in through the door, stretching her shadow long and thin-like a gust of wind could blow her away.

I suddenly remembered her walking toward me in her wedding dress five years ago. Back then, the light in her eyes had been hotter than today's sun.

My phone vibrated in my pocket. It was a message from Stella Shaw-just a photo: Sophia sitting in the passenger seat, Stella Shaw leaning over to fasten her seatbelt, his profile tender enough to sting.

The caption read: I told you. Five years, tops.

I stared at the photo. Suddenly, Joanne Morgan in my arms felt light as an illusion.