Six Years a Nameless Husband

Six Years a Nameless Husband

Gavin

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For six years, I' ve been Alex Miller in name only, living as an invisible servant and punching bag in my own home, a twisted marriage forced upon me to save my family. One seemingly normal day, red wine (the same vintage they toasted their anniversary with) shattered on the marble, a glass "accidentally" knocked by Damien, my wife Vivian' s lover. "Clean it up," Vivian sneered, not even looking at me. She then demanded I use my shirt, not my hands, so I wouldn' t scratch her precious floor, while Damien purred fake sympathy, asking if I even remembered what it was like to be a man. The familiar humiliation, a cloak I' d worn for 2,190 days, tightened around me. Why did I endure this daily torment from the wife who saw me as her cage, and her cruel co-conspirator? Then, a quiet call from the hospital delivered a gut punch: my father was dying, and his last wish was to see me free. That spark wasn' t hope, but something sharper. It was rebellion.

Introduction

For six years, I' ve been Alex Miller in name only, living as an invisible servant and punching bag in my own home, a twisted marriage forced upon me to save my family.

One seemingly normal day, red wine (the same vintage they toasted their anniversary with) shattered on the marble, a glass "accidentally" knocked by Damien, my wife Vivian' s lover.

"Clean it up," Vivian sneered, not even looking at me. She then demanded I use my shirt, not my hands, so I wouldn' t scratch her precious floor, while Damien purred fake sympathy, asking if I even remembered what it was like to be a man.

The familiar humiliation, a cloak I' d worn for 2,190 days, tightened around me. Why did I endure this daily torment from the wife who saw me as her cage, and her cruel co-conspirator?

Then, a quiet call from the hospital delivered a gut punch: my father was dying, and his last wish was to see me free. That spark wasn' t hope, but something sharper. It was rebellion.

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On the night of my career-defining art exhibition, I stood completely alone. My husband, Dante Sovrano, the most feared man in Chicago, had promised he wouldn’t miss it for the world. Instead, he was on the evening news. He was shielding another woman—his ruthless business partner—from a downpour, letting his own thousand-dollar suit get soaked just to protect her. The headline flashed below them, calling their new alliance a "power move" that would reshape the city. The guests at my gallery immediately began to whisper. Their pitying looks turned my greatest triumph into a public spectacle of humiliation. Then his text arrived, a cold, final confirmation of my place in his life: “Something came up. Isabella needed me. You understand. Business.” For four years, I had been his possession. A quiet, artistic wife kept in a gilded cage on the top floor of his skyscraper. I poured all my loneliness and heartbreak onto my canvases, but he never truly saw my art. He never truly saw me. He just saw another one of his assets. My heart didn't break that night. It turned to ice. He hadn't just neglected me; he had erased me. So the next morning, I walked into his office and handed him a stack of gallery contracts. He barely glanced up, annoyed at the interruption to his empire-building. He snatched the pen and signed on the line I’d marked. He didn’t know the page tucked directly underneath was our divorce decree. He had just signed away his wife like she was nothing more than an invoice for art supplies.

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