The Billionaire's Loveless Marriage

The marble bathroom felt like a tomb at 3 AM. Cold. Silent. Empty. I sat on the edge of the bathtub, staring at the razor blade in my trembling hands. The streetlights outside cast long shadows across the floor, making the five-thousand-square-foot mansion feel even more cavernous and lonely.

Three years of marriage to Alexander Grant had led to this moment.

Three years of being the perfect wife while he paraded other women through our home.

Three years of sleeping in guest rooms while he entertained them in our marital bed.

My fingers traced the edge of the blade, feeling its deadly sharpness. The sound of laughter drifted through the walls—her laughter, followed by his deeper voice. I closed my eyes, letting the pain wash over me in waves.

"Alexander," I whispered to the empty bathroom, "why can't you love me?"

The answer was silence, broken only by the sound of their bed moving against the wall. I pressed my palms against my ears, but it didn't help. Nothing helped anymore.

"I can't do this," I said aloud, my voice echoing in the marble space. "I can't keep pretending."

The doctor had warned me that my depression was worsening. Dr. Chen had been concerned during our last session, his kind eyes studying my face as he asked if I was suicidal.

"No," I'd lied then. "Of course not."

But that was before last night, when Alexander had brought home Elena Morrison—his first love, his college sweetheart—and made me serve them drinks before dismissing me to the guest room.

"Rose," he'd said with that cold smile that never reached his eyes, "you understand how these things work, don't you?"

I'd nodded, the perfect obedient wife, while something inside me finally shattered beyond repair.

Now, as their laughter grew louder, I made my decision. The blade felt warm in my hands, as if it understood what needed to be done.

"Just a little pressure," I told myself, "and it will all be over."

I thought about Alexander finding me, about the shock on his face when he realized what I'd done. Would he feel anything? Would he finally understand what he'd done to me?

Probably not.

With tears streaming down my face, I drew the blade across my left wrist. The pain was sharp, immediate, but somehow cleansing. Blood welled up, bright red against my pale skin.

"That's it," I whispered, watching as the blood began to drip onto the pristine white marble floor. "Just let it end."

I sliced my right wrist next, crisscrossing the cuts to ensure there would be no mistakes. The bathroom began to spin around me as I lay back against the cold tile wall.

The last thing I heard before darkness claimed me was Alexander's laughter, growing distant as blood pooled beneath me and stained the white marble crimson.

* * *

"Rose! ROSE!"

The scream tore through the mansion like a thunderclap. I floated in darkness, unaware that hours had passed since I'd made my choice.

Alexander's voice, usually so controlled and cold, now cracked with panic as he burst into the bathroom. His footsteps echoed on the marble as he stumbled toward me.

"No, no, no," he repeated, dropping to his knees beside me. "What have you done?"

I couldn't answer him. Couldn't tell him that this was the only way I could think to make him understand how much pain he'd caused me.

His hands, those same hands that had touched other women while I slept alone in guest rooms, now pressed frantically against my wrists. The pressure hurt, but distantly, as if it were happening to someone else.

"Stay with me," he demanded, his voice breaking. "Please, Rose. Stay with me."

Blood seeped between his fingers as he applied pressure to my wounds. I could feel his body trembling against mine as he fumbled for his phone with his free hand.

"Emergency services," he barked when someone answered. "I need an ambulance immediately. My wife—" His voice faltered. "My wife has cut herself. She's losing blood fast."

There was a pause as he listened.

"Yes, I've applied pressure, but it's not enough." His voice dropped to a whisper. "Please hurry."

He set the phone down and gathered me into his arms, cradling me against his chest like something precious. The Alexander Grant who had treated me like an inconvenient possession for three years was gone, replaced by a man whose face was contorted with fear.

"Don't leave me," he whispered against my hair. "Please don't leave me."

Over and over he repeated those words, as if he couldn't understand why they were coming from his mouth. As if he couldn't comprehend what was happening to him.

I wanted to tell him that it was too late. That some things, once broken, could never be repaired.

But darkness pulled me under again before I could find my voice.

* * *

Three days later, I opened my eyes to the sterile white of a hospital room. The steady beep of monitors greeted me, along with the antiseptic smell that clung to everything.

Alexander was slumped in a chair beside my bed, his normally immaculate appearance disheveled. His jaw was covered in stubble, and dark circles shadowed his eyes. He looked like he hadn't eaten or slept since they'd brought me in.

For a moment—just a moment—I felt a flicker of the old love I'd once felt for him. Then I remembered the sound of his laughter with Elena Morrison, and the feeling died as quickly as it had sparked.

"Alexander," I said, my voice hollow and raspy from disuse.

His head jerked up, eyes widening as they focused on my face. "Rose," he breathed, relief washing over his features. "Thank God."

I studied him silently, noting how his hand trembled as he reached for mine. The bandages on my wrists felt bulky and strange beneath his touch.

"Why?" he asked finally, his voice breaking on the single word.

I looked away from him, toward the window where morning light spilled across the floor in golden patterns.

"I'm tired," I said simply. "I can't do this anymore."

His face paled. "Do what? Rose, we can fix whatever's wrong. I'll—"

"Just let me go," I interrupted, each word falling like a stone between us.

The finality in my tone seemed to hit him harder than finding me bleeding on our bathroom floor. Something flashed in his eyes—fear, perhaps, or something deeper that I couldn't name.

"You don't mean that," he whispered, but there was no conviction in his voice.

I met his gaze steadily, letting him see what he'd done to me over three long years of emotional torture.

"I do," I said softly. "I'm done loving you."