The Birthday Betrayal

The Birthday Betrayal

Gavin

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My husband, Ethan, always said the money was in my account for my birthday, but that thin comfort barely masked the ache of five years of neglect. Every year, on our shared birthday, he'd be "swamped with work," while his childhood friend and my birthday twin, Chloe, got the full Ethan Davis production – elaborate plans, thoughtful gifts, all the attention I craved. He'd even bought this stunning silver sequined dress, making me foolishly believe this year might be different, that it was for me, only to overhear him in the bathroom, tenderness dripping from his voice for Chloe, calling me "not a toddler" who needed her hand held. Then, the Instagram post. Chloe, beaming, wearing *my* supposed birthday dress, planting a kiss on Ethan's cheek, captioning it, "Best birthday ever with my one and only protector!" Five years of turning a blind eye, of justifying his absence, of trying to understand his "charity case," evaporated into a cold, hard rage. I was a wife who simply wanted her husband to remember her birthday, to prioritize her over his childhood flame who clearly wanted to be more than friends. And for that, I was dismissed, humiliated, a "placeholder" in my own marriage. But that moment, seeing his brazen betrayal plastered online, was the last straw. I typed, "This trash is yours now. Have fun with him," under Chloe's post, and then announced on my own Facebook: "After five years, I've decided to file for divorce from Ethan Davis. Some things just aren't worth fighting for anymore." I was done being the invisible wife; it was time to choose myself.

Introduction

My husband, Ethan, always said the money was in my account for my birthday, but that thin comfort barely masked the ache of five years of neglect.

Every year, on our shared birthday, he'd be "swamped with work," while his childhood friend and my birthday twin, Chloe, got the full Ethan Davis production – elaborate plans, thoughtful gifts, all the attention I craved.

He'd even bought this stunning silver sequined dress, making me foolishly believe this year might be different, that it was for me, only to overhear him in the bathroom, tenderness dripping from his voice for Chloe, calling me "not a toddler" who needed her hand held.

Then, the Instagram post.

Chloe, beaming, wearing *my* supposed birthday dress, planting a kiss on Ethan's cheek, captioning it, "Best birthday ever with my one and only protector!"

Five years of turning a blind eye, of justifying his absence, of trying to understand his "charity case," evaporated into a cold, hard rage.

I was a wife who simply wanted her husband to remember her birthday, to prioritize her over his childhood flame who clearly wanted to be more than friends.

And for that, I was dismissed, humiliated, a "placeholder" in my own marriage.

But that moment, seeing his brazen betrayal plastered online, was the last straw.

I typed, "This trash is yours now. Have fun with him," under Chloe's post, and then announced on my own Facebook: "After five years, I've decided to file for divorce from Ethan Davis. Some things just aren't worth fighting for anymore."

I was done being the invisible wife; it was time to choose myself.

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I watched my husband sign the papers that would end our marriage while he was busy texting the woman he actually loved. He didn't even glance at the header. He just scribbled the sharp, jagged signature that had signed death warrants for half of New York, tossed the file onto the passenger seat, and tapped his screen again. "Done," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. That was Dante Moretti. The Underboss. A man who could smell a lie from a mile away but couldn't see that his wife had just handed him an annulment decree disguised beneath a stack of mundane logistics reports. For three years, I scrubbed his blood out of his shirts. I saved his family's alliance when his ex, Sofia, ran off with a civilian. In return, he treated me like furniture. He left me in the rain to save Sofia from a broken nail. He left me alone on my birthday to drink champagne on a yacht with her. He even handed me a glass of whiskey—her favorite drink—forgetting that I despised the taste. I was merely a placeholder. A ghost in my own home. So, I stopped waiting. I burned our wedding portrait in the fireplace, left my platinum ring in the ashes, and boarded a one-way flight to San Francisco. I thought I was finally free. I thought I had escaped the cage. But I underestimated Dante. When he finally opened that file weeks later and realized he had signed away his wife without looking, the Reaper didn't accept defeat. He burned down the world to find me, obsessed with reclaiming the woman he had already thrown away.

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