The Hidden Genius: Leaving His Cage

Britteny POV:

I gripped the signed divorce agreement and stepped onto the cold marble floor of the Manhattan Marriage Bureau, squinting under the harsh white lights. No clerk behind that glass could end a marriage - in New York, a divorce took a petition to the State Supreme Court and a judge's signature - but no court would hear my case until I could prove the marriage existed. So I had come for a certified copy of the certificate first.

Right in front of me, a newlywed couple held up their certificate for a selfie. The girl smiled until her eyes curved into crescents. Her joy hit me like a bucket of ice water, and I quickly looked down at my shoes.

The line moved forward at a crawl. I stared at the papers in my hand, where I had waived all claims to Beau Reynolds's assets. Four years at his side - one of them spent nursing him out of a wheelchair, three of them spent playing the obedient wife - and this was what it came to. A bad joke.

"Next."

The middle-aged clerk behind the glass tapped the counter, snapping me out of my daze.

I stepped up and slid my ID and the marriage certificate through the slot at the bottom of the window, the divorce agreement still crushed under my arm, my fingers moving faster than I intended.

She took my ID and typed on her keyboard. Blue light from the monitor reflected off her glasses. After a few seconds, her brows pulled together. She looked at my ID again and hit a few more keys.

"Is the system down?" I asked. My heart skipped a beat.

She looked up, giving me a strange look.

"Ma'am, the system shows you are currently single."

A heavy ringing filled my ears. I grabbed the edge of the counter.

"That's impossible," I said. "Our license was issued three years ago. May 20th."

She turned the monitor toward the glass.

"There is no marriage record for you and Mr. Beau Reynolds in the city database. The marriage certificate you have is a fake."

The red "NO RECORD" letters burned into my retinas. My spine went rigid, and my fingertips turned ice-cold.

Numbness spread through my limbs as I took back my ID and papers. I couldn't even force out a thank-you. I turned around and stumbled toward the waiting chairs in the corner, my legs so weak they could barely hold me up.

The moment I dropped onto the plastic seat, the memory of Beau staying out all night flashed through my mind. I had called him at two in the morning, only for a woman's soft voice to answer.

It was Kamilah Castillo, his childhood sweetheart. She had laughed softly into the receiver.

"Beau is asleep. How much longer are you going to cling to him?"

That humiliation crashed into the "single" status on the screen, churning my stomach violently. I clapped a hand over my mouth to force down the nausea, and hot tears spilled onto the back of my hand. Four years of swallowing insults, cooking his meals, and taking his family's cold shoulders meant nothing. I wasn't even his legal wife.

With shaking hands, I unzipped my bag, folded the useless divorce agreement, and tucked it inside.

My phone buzzed in my coat pocket. A text from Beau lit up the screen.

"There's a gala tonight. Have my suit ready."

He sounded like an emperor handing down an order. I didn't reply. I locked the phone, catching a glimpse of my pale, deadpan face in the dark glass. Standing up, I smoothed the hem of my coat, straightened my back, and walked out of the Marriage Bureau.

I pushed open the heavy glass doors. The freezing New York wind rushed down my collar, clearing the fog in my head. I hailed a yellow cab and gave the driver the address to the Reynolds estate.

By three in the morning, the living room was pitch-black. I sat on the sofa, half my body swallowed by shadows. On the coffee table sat my phone, showing a text from an unknown number three hours ago.

"Beau is with me."

I knew it was from Kamilah.

The front door clicked open. Beau walked in and flipped on the foyer light. Seeing me on the couch, he flinched, irritation flashing across his face.

"Why are you sitting here in the dark instead of sleeping?"

Through his slightly open collar, a diamond necklace caught the light. His neck had been bare when he left yesterday.

"I couldn't sleep," I said flatly.

He walked over carrying a bakery box and shoved it into my arms.

"Happy third anniversary."

Today was our third anniversary. While I was downtown trying to divorce him, he was out with Kamilah. I looked down at the box in my lap and my throat tightened. It was a sponge cake, heavy with eggs. I was severely allergic to eggs, and after four years, he still didn't remember.

Beau didn't notice my silence. He tossed his phone onto the sofa and headed upstairs to shower.

I set the cake on the coffee table just as his phone screen lit up. The name "Kamilah" flashed across the display. Moving on pure instinct, I swiped to answer.

"Beau, are you home yet?" Her voice was dripping with sweetness.

My throat constricted. For one absurd second I nearly said yes - let her believe she was talking to him, the way I had spent four years letting everyone believe whatever was easiest.

"He's home," I rasped instead.

The line went dead without a word.

I stood up, walked upstairs to the master bedroom, and sat at the desk. Pulling open the bottom drawer, I took out the marriage certificate. A single sheet of heavy cream paper, embossed with a gold seal - the only copy in existence, and as of this afternoon worth nothing at all. Beneath it lay the only photograph we had ever taken as husband and wife: the two of us pressed close together, his eyes cold and distant even then.