My Billionaire Husband Faked His Downfall

After the auction ended, I unexpectedly stumbled upon a post on social media titled, "The Man Who Once Pursued Me Is Married, But I Regret It."

The cover photo featured a ring adorned with a small wave pattern. It was the very ring that Lance kept hanging around his neck, day and night.

Intrigued, I clicked on the post. The second image was a selfie of the poster.

I immediately recognized her as the woman who had been by Lance's side today.

The third photo appeared to have been taken recently. It showed their clasped hands adorned with the rings, the backdrop unmistakably that of the auction venue from earlier.

The caption read: "The man who once pursued me is now married. Now that I'm back in the country, I find that he's still willing to spend a fortune on gifts for me. Do we perhaps still stand a chance?"

In the comments, some users condemned her as a mistress, to which she replied, "We were lovers to begin with; I just went abroad. That woman used underhanded tactics to force my boyfriend to marry her. In the end, she's the real third party, right?"

Her words sparked a flood of responses, with hundreds criticizing her for being shameless. The repetition grew tiresome, and I couldn't help but feel a sense of fatigue.

All these years, Lance had clung to the token of his first love. What a testament to the vows of eternal love—what a repulsive tale of love-struck fools.

*

Lance returned to our small rented apartment long after midnight.

Since he had started pretending to be poor and sick, he had never come home this late.

I sat on the floor of the living room, eyes glued to the television. When I heard the sound of him entering, I didn't even bother to glance his way.

He seemed surprised, perhaps wondering why I wasn't rushing to greet him or inquiring about his health.

He placed his keys on the coffee table and bent down. As he did, I caught a whiff of something rare—there was a faint scent of alcohol mingling with the fresh fragrance of shower gel.

Perhaps he had indulged in a few drinks after meeting the first love he had longed for. As for what might have had happened next, well, as adults, we all knew.

He put the bag of beef he had brought home into the refrigerator and then walked toward me.

Sitting beside me, his voice carried a hint of guilt. "Sorry, I've been busy with my part-time job," he said. As he spoke, my gaze remained fixed on the television.

Suddenly, I was reminded of the month after our bankruptcy. During that time, he had been utterly dispirited, losing weight noticeably in just a few weeks. Out of necessity, I had taken him to the hospital for a check-up. Dr. Phie told me he had depression.

Since he had fallen into this state after our financial ruin, I had taken on all the responsibilities of making a living.

It seemed that a man's pride would not allow him to languish indefinitely while relying on a woman to support him. That was why he had found a part-time job, but even that was a lie.

I turned to look at him, searching for any hint of guilt in his eyes. Just a trace would do.

If I could see even the slightest glimmer, I wouldn't feel that all these years together had been for nothing.

Unfortunately, I saw nothing.

My gaze slowly drifted from his face down to his chin, neck, collarbone, and chest, finally settling on the ring on his left ring finger.

A sudden smile crept onto my lips as I raised my hand to push aside the collar of his shirt that obscured his neck. "Where's your necklace?"

Lance froze, caught off guard by my question. When he regained his composure, he began to evade my eyes, his right hand instinctively covering the ring on his left hand.

"The red string broke while I was working today... so I took the ring off and put it on my finger," he said, keeping his head lowered, clearly avoiding my gaze.

I had expected that by asking him this question, I would give him an opportunity to confess everything. Instead, he chose to mask one lie with another. But now, seeing his guilt and his reluctance to reveal the whole truth, my patience wore thin.

I withdrew all my affection and sense of responsibility, then spoke firmly, "Lance, let's get a divorce."

When I said this, it seemed he hadn't fully grasped what I meant. The smile on his face remained, though it faded as he began to comprehend my words.

His grin gradually stiffened, the corners of his mouth dropping until he wore an expression of disbelief. "Wh... what?"

My tone was resolute. "I want a divorce."

His breathing quickened, panic rising in his voice. "Why?"

Why? How dare he even ask?

Anger bubbled within me, and I couldn't help but laugh, bitterly. "Lance, how many times have you seen Dr. Phie this year for psychological counseling?"