Stop Pretending You Don't Love Me

Married to Caleb Lewis for three years, I'm the Mrs. Lewis everyone envies, yet a lonely woman guarding an empty home. Caleb Lewis is the prince of J City, wielding power like flipping clouds and rain; I'm just his nominal wife. The reason is simple—his heart belongs to his first love, Ruby Shaw. At tonight's business dinner party, amid the scent of perfume, shifting shadows, and clinking glasses, I linked my arm through his, playing the part of the loving wife. "Caleb, Bella looks stunning tonight." The partner's boss smiled and complimented. Caleb Lewis gave a faint "hmm," but his gaze swept past the crowd and landed on Ruby Shaw nearby. My fingertips were cold, but my face still wore a composed smile. "Stop pretending. Aren't you tired?" Back in the lounge, he pulled his arm away, his tone distant. "Not tired. This is what Mrs. Lewis is supposed to do." I took off my pearl earrings, my voice steady. He didn't say another word and turned to leave. Cradling the cold glass of water, I suddenly felt like stepping out onto the balcony for some fresh air. Just as I rounded the corner, I caught Ruby's voice. "Caleb, when are you finally going to be honest with Bella? What are we supposed to be to each other?" "The timing isn't right yet." Caleb's voice was noticeably deeper than usual. "Timing? I've been waiting for three years! You clearly don't love her, so why haven't you divorced her? "Ruby's voice was trembling with tears. I held my breath, my heart twisting as if gripped by an invisible hand. "Don't love?" Caleb scoffed, "Ruby, there are some things you just don't understand." "I don't understand? All I know is you keep her close but never even touch her! Is that what you call 'not understanding'?" "She's not feeling well, I don't want to force her." "What an excuse! Caleb Lewis, are you falling for her?" Ruby Shaw raised her voice. The air fell silent for a few seconds, then I heard Caleb's voice, carrying a tenderness even he didn't realize he had. "She's different." My knees went weak, and I almost crashed into the wall. He says I'm different? Then what about these three years of neglect? Back in the bedroom, I changed into a silk nightgown. Moonlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling window, spilling onto the floor and lighting up his cold profile. I walked over slowly and gently wrapped my arms around his waist. His body tensed, and he suddenly spun around, pushing me away. "Bella Scott, what are you doing?" His eyes were sharp, unmistakably filled with resistance. "I'm your wife." I looked up at him, my eyes stinging with tears. "Stop it." He turned his face away. "I'm going to sleep in the guest room." The moment the door shut, my tears finally fell. Different? So this is what 'different' treatment really feels like. Early the next morning, while organizing his study files, I accidentally knocked over the celadon vase on the bookshelf. The bottle didn't break but revealed a hidden door behind it. I froze for a moment, then, as if compelled by some force, pushed it open. It was small inside, but packed with stuff. An old hairpin I wore in high school, a professional book covered in my college notes, and even a doodle I did on my birthday last year. The most noticeable thing was the metal box on the desk—filled with love letters, all written in Caleb Lewis's handwriting. "Today Bella Scott wore a white dress, like a little gardenia." "She flunked her math test again and cried on the desk. I really wanted to go over and hug her." "I'm going to marry her, no matter what it takes." The handwriting shifts from awkward to mature, spanning a full eight years. I crouched on the floor, tears falling onto the love letter, smudging the ink. He obviously cares about me so much—so why does he pretend to be cold? Why make me guard this lifeless shell of a marriage? "What are you doing here?" Caleb Lewis's voice came from behind. I stood up, clutching a love letter in my hand, and turned to look at him. "What is all this?" My voice trembled. His face suddenly changed; he hurried over, trying to take the things away. "Who let you in?" "Caleb Lewis, what do you think I am?" I stepped back, "A toy you call when you want and throw away when you don't? Or just some decoration to pass the time?" "Bella Scott, let me explain." He reached out to touch me. I dodged his hand, shaking my head, "No need to explain." I'm tired—really tired. All the years of suspicion, hurt, and hope suddenly turned into a dull blade the moment I laid eyes on those love letters, slicing through my heart over and over. "Caleb Lewis, let's get a divorce." He froze, his eyes wide with disbelief. "What did you say?" "I said, divorce." I repeated, word by word, "I've had enough of these past three years."