The Wedding Crasher

My wife and I were married for five years. A secret.
It started as a love-at-first-sight fairytale at university and devolved into this—a cold, silent existence where we were little more than strangers sharing a roof. All that was left between us was her charity and my silence.
Then, her best friend called. "Claire's planning a wedding of the century," she'd chirped. "She says she owes it to you after these five years, for all the sacrifices."
A flicker of hope I thought long dead sparked within me. I was so ecstatic I had a bespoke suit tailored for the occasion.
A week later, I stood in the corner of the grand ballroom, watching my wife, Claire, radiant under the crystal chandeliers. Beside her, dapper and beaming, stood Ethan.
"I do."
Their vows echoed through the hall.
When her eyes finally found me in the crowd, her face fell, a mask of pure shock. "Simon?" she blurted out. "What are you doing here?!"

1
As the officiant declared them husband and wife, the room held its breath. I broke the silence, rising to my feet and starting a round of applause.
"Kiss her! Kiss her!" the guests roared, following my lead.
The moment Claire saw me, raw panic washed over her features. "What are you doing here?!" she mouthed again, her voice lost in the din.
I ignored her, turning on my heel and walking out of the ballroom, leaving a sea of confused faces in my wake.
As I expected, she didn't follow. The whispers and murmurs of the guests faded behind me until there was only the cold night air.
The next time I saw Claire was late the following night. In the interim, there had been no calls, no texts, no explanations. Just the same suffocating silence that now filled our living room.
She watched me work on my laptop for a long moment before finally speaking.
"I promised Ethan," she said, her voice flat. "I promised he could have his dream wedding."
She paused, as if waiting for a reaction. When none came, she added, "It was just for show, Simon. It's not like we got legally married."
Her rare attempt at an explanation did nothing for me. The moment I’d watched them exchange vows, heard them say "I do," something inside me had simply snapped. The whole charade of the last seven years suddenly felt profoundly, exhaustingly pointless.
My silence seemed to ignite her temper. "Simon, what the hell is your problem?" she snapped, her voice sharp with impatience. "I didn't sign a marriage certificate with him! Who are you putting on this long face for?!"
I closed my laptop, ready to retreat to the bedroom. She blocked my path.
"Is this the attitude you're going to have? Fine," she spat. "If you're going to act like a child, you can stay out of my bedroom."
I just nodded. "Okay."
I turned, slipped the laptop back into its bag, and settled onto the oversized beanbag chair in the corner, closing my eyes.
A deafening slam echoed through the apartment as she stormed out of the room.
With my eyes closed, the years spooled backward in my mind. I'd fallen for Claire the moment I saw her at a university gala. My pursuit was anything but subtle—a relentless campaign of morning coffees, lavish dinners, and expensive gifts. I was her shadow, her benefactor, her most devoted admirer.
But she remained unmoved, gracefully accepting all my offerings while consistently rejecting my heart. She made it painfully clear: she was in love with Ethan. He was the brilliant, handsome scholar, the untouchable ideal she worshipped.
In my world, however, the truth about Ethan was an open secret. My friends all knew him for what he was: a handsome leech, preying on wealthy young women, desperate to marry into money. A gigolo in a cashmere sweater.
I tried to tell her, to warn her. She accused me of being cruel and manipulative, of stooping to slander to ruin the image of her perfect man.
Then came graduation. Ethan left for a graduate program overseas, and just as he disappeared, Claire’s father was diagnosed with a severe heart condition. He needed a donor, and he needed a fortune for the surgery.
After being turned down by every friend and relative, she called me, desperate.
That night, I was out with my friends at a club, my phone on silent. I have no idea how she found me, but she tracked me down, her face pale with desperation. I gave her a debit card with a million dollars on it—more than enough for the surgery. Then I called in a favor with a connection, securing a heart donor for her father.
After I'd arranged everything, she took the card and left without a word.
Only then did I check my phone and see the string of frantic messages from her. The last one read:
"Simon, if you help me, I'll do anything you ask."
A week later, she appeared before me again. Before I could even ask about her father, she cut me off.
"Simon," she said, her voice void of emotion. "Let's get married."

2
I later learned the full story. The moment Ethan had gone abroad, he’d ghosted her completely.
Meanwhile, I had produced a million dollars and a life-saving organ transplant without batting an eye. In her family's eyes, I wasn't just a suitor anymore; I was a golden goose they couldn't afford to let fly away.
So, caught between the sting of abandonment and the weight of familial pressure, Claire had gritted her teeth and married me. And for the next seven years, she made sure I paid for it, channeling all her resentment and unhappiness directly onto me.
Two years of courtship, five years of marriage. Seven years a resentful couple, and I still hadn't carved out a single inch of space in her heart.
Now, that heart of mine was finally dead.
The next morning, my lawyer sent over the divorce agreement. I printed it, signed my name, and went to find Claire. She was in the living room, immaculately dressed, watering her plants.
The moment she saw me, her face turned to ice. "Go to the grocery store," she ordered, not even looking up. "We're having dinner at my parents' tonight. They just got back from their trip."
She paused. "And make sure you get some prime rib and a good bottle of Bordeaux. Ethan loves it."
That casual, commanding tone—born from years of my unconditional obedience—now sounded utterly absurd. A bitter laugh almost escaped me. This was the woman I’d fallen for at first sight? This was the woman I’d propped up with my time, my effort, my money?
What a fool I'd been.
"Sign it," I said, my voice flat as I placed the divorce agreement on the table in front of her.
"What's this? I'm not talking about work on a Satur—Simon, what the hell is this?!" Her dismissive tone vanished as she focused on the words "DIVORCE AGREEMENT" at the top of the page.
A flash of anger crossed her face. "Are you still sulking? And now you're trying to threaten me with a divorce?" she scoffed. "Simon, I already explained everything. You're blowing this way out of proportion."
I didn't engage. I just repeated two words: "Sign it."
My cold resolve sent her into a rage. In one swift motion, she snatched the papers and tore them to shreds. "So now we're playing hard to get, are we?" she sneered. "Why can't you be more like Ethan? Why do you have to make everything so difficult?!"
She paused, a cruel, calculating glint in her eyes. "Oh, I get it," she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. "This is about having a baby, isn't it? Fine. I agree. We can have a child. Are you satisfied now?"
I remained silent.
It was true, I had wanted a child with her. Her family had been pushing for it for years. But she had always resisted, vehemently. She'd once even told me that even as her husband, if she didn't consent, it would be rape. A chilling, clinical declaration that had echoed in my mind for months.

First, search for and download the MotoNovel app from Google. Then, open the app and use the code "243456" to read the entire book.