The Man She Called "Boring"

The Man She Called "Boring"

Wo Ruo

5.0
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On the eve of my wedding, I was in the new house I' d bought for Jennifer, practicing my vows, believing my devotion would finally earn her love. My phone buzzed. It was a Finsta notification, her secret Instagram. Curiosity twisted my gut as I opened it. There, a picture of her hand, my three-carat diamond sparkling, intertwined with her ex-boyfriend Tyrone' s tattooed hand on a rumpled motel bed. The caption read: "One last taste of freedom before I'm locked down. #WildHeart." My blood ran cold. I called, but her voice was sharp, annoyed; then I heard his low laugh. Scrolling deeper, I found more: "He's so sweet and reliable, but so... boring. Sometimes I miss the passion." And the one that killed me: "My heart belongs to the music, but my life belongs to the money. It is what it is. The wedding is on. At least I'll be rich." Five years of love reduced to a transaction. I was just a walking ATM, a "boring safety net." Humiliation burned through me. But as my best man called to confirm the limo, a new feeling pushed through the pain: resolve. The wedding would happen. But Jennifer Chavez would not be the bride. I scrolled through my contacts. Molly Fuller. My college friend. "How would you like to get married tomorrow?" I asked. It was a contract. A shocking twist that would redefine everything.

Introduction

On the eve of my wedding, I was in the new house I' d bought for Jennifer, practicing my vows, believing my devotion would finally earn her love.

My phone buzzed. It was a Finsta notification, her secret Instagram.

Curiosity twisted my gut as I opened it.

There, a picture of her hand, my three-carat diamond sparkling, intertwined with her ex-boyfriend Tyrone' s tattooed hand on a rumpled motel bed.

The caption read: "One last taste of freedom before I'm locked down. #WildHeart."

My blood ran cold.

I called, but her voice was sharp, annoyed; then I heard his low laugh.

Scrolling deeper, I found more: "He's so sweet and reliable, but so... boring. Sometimes I miss the passion."

And the one that killed me: "My heart belongs to the music, but my life belongs to the money. It is what it is. The wedding is on. At least I'll be rich."

Five years of love reduced to a transaction. I was just a walking ATM, a "boring safety net." Humiliation burned through me.

But as my best man called to confirm the limo, a new feeling pushed through the pain: resolve.

The wedding would happen.

But Jennifer Chavez would not be the bride.

I scrolled through my contacts. Molly Fuller. My college friend.

"How would you like to get married tomorrow?" I asked.

It was a contract. A shocking twist that would redefine everything.

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A Wife, A Placeholder, A Lie

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The frantic beeping of the heart monitor was the only sound as my son, Leo, struggled for every breath. Anaphylactic shock, the doctors said. A severe, unexpected allergic reaction. My world reeled as the nurse cried, "We need O-negative blood, now! The blood bank is running low." Just as despair threatened to swallow me, my friend Chloe stepped forward. "I'm O-negative. Take my blood. Take as much as you need." Relief washed over me, a gratitude so immense it felt like pain. Hours later, with Leo sleeping peacefully thanks to Chloe' s heroic act, Liam, my husband, praised her as a "selfless hero." But then, I overheard Chloe's voice, cold and sharp, "I had to prick the little brat with that bee stinger. And I had to make sure he ate the crushed nuts. It was a mess, Liam." My hand froze on the faucet. Liam' s voice, low and intimate, soothed her. "Now everyone sees you as a hero. The perfect, caring woman. We just need to wait a little longer." Chloe whined, "I'm tired of watching her play mother to my son. I want my life back. I want our life back." My son. The words slammed into me, shattering my reality. He said it again: "Our son." My entire marriage was a meticulously crafted lie, a cage adorned to look like a home. Every loving glance, every tender touch, every shared laugh – a performance. I wasn't a wife; I was a placeholder. I wasn't a mother; I was a nanny. My sweet Leo, a prop in their cruel play. Liam was building a family, a life, not with me, but with her. I was just the convenient, naive stepping stone. My blood ran cold. I wasn't just heartbroken; I was a pawn in an elaborate, sinister game. With trembling hands, I pulled out my phone and pressed record. I needed proof. I needed a record of this monstrosity.

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4.5

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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