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The Other Woman in Our Marriage

Name: The Other Woman in Our Marriage
Rating: 5.0 (1 reviews)

Rabbit

Modern | Completed

5.0

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My marriage to Ethan Cole, a man revered as a titan of industry, felt less like a partnership and more like a never-ending siege. After years of fighting for even a sliver of his attention, I found him on the floor of his study, fixated on a small, wooden box. Inside, nestled on velvet, were forbidden relics: a child's drawing, a pressed flower, and a faded photo of Olivia Vance, the girl he'd been raised with. The raw, yearning expression on his face, a look he had never once given me, confirmed the crushing truth: his emotional unavailability was solely reserved for her. Our sterile, business-transaction marriage was a smokescreen for his lifelong obsession, culminating in him abandoning me in a skyscraper fire as he pulled Olivia to safety. He then brushed off my concussion from Olivia's attack, prioritized her minor burn for a top surgeon, and offered obscene diamonds to buy my silence, while she moved into our home to subtly torture me. His blindness to Olivia's manipulation, his monumental arrogance, and his consistent disregard for my pain made me realize the devastating reality: he didn't just not feel for me, he chose to torment me instead. But as I saved myself from those flames, a cold, hard resolve replaced the agony. My love for him, long dead, was now replaced by a fierce determination: I would reclaim my life, expose his deceit, and make him truly understand the cost of his choices.

Modern Obsession Drama Kickass Heroine Second chance

Chapter 14 14

The day before yesterday 13:42

Chapter 1 1

My marriage to Ethan Cole, a man revered as a titan of industry, felt less like a partnership and more like a never-ending siege.

After years of fighting for even a sliver of his attention, I found him on the floor of his study, fixated on a small, wooden box.

Inside, nestled on velvet, were forbidden relics: a child's drawing, a pressed flower, and a faded photo of Olivia Vance, the girl he'd been raised with.

The raw, yearning expression on his face, a look he had never once given me, confirmed the crushing truth: his emotional unavailability was solely reserved for her.

Our sterile, business-transaction marriage was a smokescreen for his lifelong obsession, culminating in him abandoning me in a skyscraper fire as he pulled Olivia to safety.

He then brushed off my concussion from Olivia's attack, prioritized her minor burn for a top surgeon, and offered obscene diamonds to buy my silence, while she moved into our home to subtly torture me.

His blindness to Olivia's manipulation, his monumental arrogance, and his consistent disregard for my pain made me realize the devastating reality: he didn't just not feel for me, he chose to torment me instead.

But as I saved myself from those flames, a cold, hard resolve replaced the agony.

My love for him, long dead, was now replaced by a fierce determination: I would reclaim my life, expose his deceit, and make him truly understand the cost of his choices.

Chapter 1

The phone felt heavy in my hand.

"Marcus, I'm filing for divorce."

My voice was flat, a stranger's.

Silence on the London line, then his sigh, familiar and weary.

"Mia, I always said, Ethan Cole is a monument. You can't make a monument feel."

I knew. God, I knew.

For years, 999 attempts. That's what it felt like. Each one a small death.

He was a fortress, Ethan Cole, revered in New York, a titan of industry, a pillar of stoic perfection.

My husband.

I hung up, the click echoing in the too-quiet penthouse.

His study door was ajar.

Not unusual. He often retreated there.

But tonight, the third time this month, the sight inside twisted something cold in my gut.

Ethan wasn't at his massive mahogany desk.

He wasn't reviewing reports or on a late-night call.

He was on the floor, cross-legged, like a child.

Before him, a small, intricately carved wooden box. Open.

His "prayer book," as I'd sarcastically dubbed his obsessive need for solitary reflection.

Only it wasn't a prayer book.

Inside, nestled on velvet, were not scriptures, but relics.

Olivia Vance's relics.

A child's clumsy drawing of two stick figures holding hands, labeled "E + O."

A single, pressed gardenia, brown and fragile.

A faded photograph of a teenage Olivia, laughing, her arm slung possessively around a younger, less guarded Ethan.

His fingers, long and elegant, traced the outline of her face in the photo.

His expression. It wasn't stoic. It was... yearning. Raw.

A look he'd never once given me.

This was it. The final, crushing confirmation. His emotional unavailability wasn't a general state; it was specific to me. Because all his emotions were already mortgaged to her. Olivia. The girl raised like his sister.

My breath hitched. He didn't look up. Lost.

Flashback. I was twenty-two. A charity gala, glittering and obscene with New York wealth.

Ethan Cole. Impeccable in a custom tux, polite, a cool, steady presence amidst the brash Wall Street wolves.

Marcus, ever the pragmatist, had leaned in, his voice a low warning in my ear.

"He's all form, Mia. No substance where it counts. Be careful."

But I was an optimist then. Full of fire. I saw a challenge, a man to be reached, a heart to be won.

I believed I could be the one.

So, I tried. For years.

I learned about his obscure passions – seventeenth-century maritime history, the migratory patterns of arctic terns.

I tried to draw him into my world, my art, my vibrancy.

I muted my bright wardrobe for the subdued greys and navies he seemed to approve of for a "corporate wife."

His proposal was a business transaction. Abrupt. Devoid of romance. Delivered over a sterile dinner after a board meeting.

"Mia, marriage would be a mutually beneficial arrangement for us both. It would solidify my image, and you, well, you'd be Mrs. Cole."

No bended knee. No whispered words of love.

A strategic move. Perhaps to appease his family, with their stringent, almost puritanical moral code. Or perhaps, I saw now with sickening clarity, to build another wall against Olivia.

Our wedding night. He'd kissed my forehead, a chaste, dismissive peck.

Then, "I have some urgent work, Mia. Please, make yourself comfortable."

He retreated to his study.

I was left alone in a vast, cold bedroom, the silk sheets a mockery.

Now, watching him with Olivia's box, the pieces clicked into a horrifying mosaic.

The coldness. The distance. The years of trying to animate a statue.

It wasn't that he couldn't feel. He just didn't feel for me.

He looked up, startled, his eyes clearing slowly, that brief flicker of raw emotion shuttered away.

"Mia. I didn't hear you come in."

His voice, as always, calm, controlled. Untouched.

I managed a small, brittle smile.

"Just admiring your devotion, Ethan."