Only Three Years

This marriage was destined to be a business transaction from day one.

My familys company desperately needed a massive infusion of capital to stay afloat, and his family was drowning in a messy, high-stakes legal battle. We each had something the other needed. That was the only reason we walked down the aisle.

From the moment we said our vows, we slept in separate bedrooms.

I remember mustering up the courage shortly after the wedding to ask if I could move my things into the master suite.

He rejected the idea without a second of hesitation. His reason was simple. Caroline would mind.

Caroline. His first love. The girl he could never let go of.

He looked at me with ice in his eyes and added that if it had not been for me, they would not have ended up like this. He told me to just leave things as they were.

I stood there frozen. It took me a long time to force a single, pathetic "okay" past the lump in my throat.

I never brought up sharing a bed again.

For three years, no matter the occasion, the woman standing by his side was always Caroline.

She was at his family dinners. She was on his arm at the corporate galas. Even at my own mothers birthday party, she was the one hovering near him.

Everyone whispered behind my back. They all gossiped about who the real mistress of the house actually was.

But it didn't matter anymore. The financial crisis was averted, and the lawsuits were settled.

It was finally time for me to leave.

I sat in the study, reading the divorce settlement from top to bottom one last time.

Black ink on white paper. Crystal clear.

Under the asset division section, I asked for absolutely nothing.

The sprawling estate belonged to him before we married, so he kept it. The luxury cars stayed with him. His company shares had nothing to do with me.

I only needed the money I had in my own savings account.

I picked up a pen and signed my name on the dotted line.

Serena Kensington.

Three years ago, I was stupid enough to think that even though this marriage started as a corporate deal, maybe we could build something real.

I was such a fool.

I slid the documents into a manila envelope and left it on the coffee table.

Then I picked up my phone and opened my text thread with him.

"Come home early tonight. There's something we need to discuss."

About two minutes later, a single word popped up on the screen.

"Okay."

I locked my phone and tossed it onto the sofa.

Turning around, I walked into the kitchen to pour myself a glass of water.

It was a massive, gorgeous kitchen. It featured a double-door smart fridge, built-in dual ovens, and imported German cookware, all arranged in pristine order.

But I rarely used any of it.

When we first got married, I tried cooking a few times. I wanted him to have a hot meal waiting for him after a long day at the office.

The first time, I spent hours making a slow-roasted beef brisket. He took one bite and said it was decent.

Then his phone rang. He grabbed his coat and walked out the door, saying Caroline had an emergency.

The second time, I made pan-seared sea bass. He never came home at all.

The third time, I prepared an entire feast. I stood over the stove from four in the afternoon until seven in the evening.

He actually came home that night, but Caroline was trailing right behind him.

They walked in laughing and joking. When he saw the dining table covered in food, he paused for a second before shaking his head.

"We already made reservations. We're eating out."

Caroline stood behind his shoulder, tilting her head to look at me. She offered a sickeningly sweet smile. "You worked so hard for nothing."

Just thinking about that smile makes my stomach churn with acid.

I never cooked for him again.

Seven o'clock rolled around. He wasn't home.

Eight o'clock. Still empty.

At nine, my phone finally buzzed.

I glanced at the screen. It was a text from him.

"Caroline is dealing with some stuff. I'm going to be late. Go to sleep first, don't wait up."

I stared at those words for a very long time.

Go to sleep first. Don't wait up.

I had been reading those exact words for three years.

It was always like this. It was always Caroline.

She was a walking disaster zone, and he was her personal first responder.

If she caught a cold, he had to be there. If she felt sad, he had to be there. He helped her move apartments. He even held her hand when she adopted a stray cat.

Once, Caroline mentioned she was craving a specific slice of cake from a bakery across town. He drove forty minutes in gridlock traffic to buy it, delivered it to her condo, and waited until she finished eating before heading back.

He walked through the front door at 1 AM.

I asked him if he had eaten dinner.

He said he already ate at Caroline's place.

Then he took a shower and went straight to sleep in the guest room.

I should have woken up and smelled the coffee that night.

But I didn't.

I kept tricking myself into believing that since we were legally bound, we owed it to each other to try.

I thought that if enough time passed, he would realize I wasn't a monster.

I thought that if I played the perfect, understanding wife, he would eventually turn around and see me.

Looking back, it was completely delusional. If someone doesn't have a space for you in their heart, bending over backwards will only break your spine.

He wasn't going to fall in love with me just because I was a good wife. He just felt entitled to my goodness.

I didn't reply to his text.

In the past, I would always send back a polite "Okay" to let him know I understood.

Sometimes I would even add a pathetic "drive safe," desperately trying to show him how graceful and mature I was.

But tonight, I didn't want to reply.

It didn't matter anyway. In a few days, I would never receive a text from him again.

I left my phone on the coffee table and grabbed the remote to change the channel.

A reality show was playing. A bunch of celebrities were laughing hysterically at some pointless joke.

I leaned back against the cushions. The contrast between the bright, noisy television and my dead, silent reality felt completely absurd.

Here I was, sitting in a multi-million dollar mansion, chained to a ghost of a marriage, waiting for a man who would never prioritize me.

And he was out keeping his first love company.

He did it openly. He felt completely justified.

Because on the day we got our marriage license, he made his stance crystal clear. If it weren't for me, he and Caroline would be living happily ever after.

In his eyes, I was the villain who tore them apart.

I was the ruthless heiress who shoved her way into his life, using my family's connections and his company's lawsuit to force a ring onto his finger.

But what was the actual truth?

The truth was that my father's business was bleeding cash and teetering on the edge of bankruptcy.

Meanwhile, Arthur's corporation was drowning in a catastrophic lawsuit that only my family's political network could make disappear.

The patriarchs of both families sat down over an expensive dinner and finalized the merger.

Nobody asked me if I wanted to be a bride.

Nobody asked him if he wanted to be a groom.

To the rest of the world, it was a perfectly balanced business deal.

He provided the funding. My family provided the muscle. A clean exchange.

Caroline was just the unfortunate collateral damage.

Arthur firmly believed I had stolen her rightful place. I had forced her to step down from the role of the beloved girlfriend to the tragic, hidden ex.

So he poured all his guilt into spoiling Caroline, and he saved all his freezing indifference for me.

On our wedding night, he drank himself into a stupor. His groomsmen had to drag him into the house.

I tried to help him take off his suit jacket and loosen his tie. He grabbed my wrist with a grip so tight it bruised.

"Serena Kensington."

He spat my full name, his voice ragged and slurred.

"You know exactly what this marriage is. I don't love you, and I will never love you as long as I breathe. If you know what's good for you, you'll play the quiet little wife and stay out of my way. Do not expect me to ever touch you."

He let go of my wrist, stumbled down the hallway, and locked himself in the guest bedroom.

We slept in separate rooms from that night forward.

He took the guest room. I took the master suite.

Thinking about it now, over the course of three years, he had only stepped foot in the master bedroom twice.

The first time was on our wedding night to deliver that speech.

The second time was last winter when I caught a nasty virus. My fever spiked to 103 degrees, and I was delirious.

The housekeeper panicked and called him. He showed up two hours later, stood in the doorway of the bedroom, stared at me for ten seconds, and told the housekeeper to take me to the ER.

Then he left.

He said Caroline had an incredibly important social event, and he needed to be her plus-one.

He didn't come home at all that night.

When I woke up at seven the next morning, I checked my phone. My screen was completely blank. Not a single text checking to see if I was alive.

I washed my face and walked downstairs. The housekeeper, Martha, was already prepping breakfast.

When she saw me walking down alone, she opened her mouth to say something, hesitated, and finally just asked gently what I wanted to eat.

"Just some plain oatmeal, please."

I sat at the kitchen island. My phone screen finally lit up.

It was a text from him.

"Caroline drank too much last night. I stayed at her place to take care of her. I have a morning meeting, so I'm heading straight to the office."

I put the phone face down and took a spoonful of hot oatmeal.

"Martha, could you do me a favor and buy some heavy-duty cardboard boxes today?"

She froze, holding a spatula in mid-air. "Are you moving, ma'am?"

"Yes. In a few days."

She parted her lips, clearly wanting to ask a million questions, but one look at my exhausted expression made her swallow her words.

She had worked in this house for three years. She had eyes. She knew exactly what was going on.

"Right away, ma'am."

She nodded and turned back to the stove.

I finished my breakfast, went upstairs, and changed into a pair of jeans and a sweater.

I had an appointment with a leasing agent today. I needed to secure a new place before walking out of this toxic mansion.

I didn't ask for a dime in the divorce settlement, but that didn't mean I was destitute.

I had a healthy amount of savings from before the marriage.

Even though I hadn't worked a corporate job for the past three years, Arthur's family automatically deposited a hefty monthly allowance into my account. I barely touched it, so it had piled up into a small fortune.

It was more than enough to rent a nice luxury apartment and live comfortably for a year or two without breaking a sweat.

I would figure out the rest of my life later.

The leasing agent was a bubbly young woman with a high ponytail who talked a mile a minute.

She showed me a sleek two-bedroom apartment on the East Side, just outside the chaotic city center, surrounded by greenery.

"Miss Kensington, the natural light in this unit is to die for. The landlord just completely renovated the place. All the appliances and furniture are brand new. It's going for four thousand a month. What do you think?"

I stood on the balcony. The view was entirely unobstructed, overlooking a beautiful public park.

It wasn't a mansion, but it was perfect for one person.

More importantly, there were absolutely zero memories of Arthur Harrington polluting the space.

"It's perfect. I'll take it."

The girl blinked, clearly shocked that I was signing without haggling or hesitating. She broke into a massive grin.

"Oh, wonderful! Let me get the paperwork ready and call the landlord right now!"

I signed a one-year lease on the spot and wired the deposit and first month's rent.

When I walked out of the building with the keys in my hand, the afternoon sun felt incredibly warm against my skin.

I stood on the sidewalk, tossing the keys in my palm, feeling a crushing weight finally lift off my chest.

When I got back to the mansion later that afternoon, Martha had already stacked a dozen folded moving boxes in the living room.

I was just about to carry a few upstairs to tackle my closet when the front door clicked open.

I didn't turn around, but my gut already told me who it was.

Sure enough, a familiar, sickly-sweet voice echoed behind me.

"Oh, you're home."

I turned around.

Caroline was standing in the foyer.

She noticed the cardboard boxes in my hands. Her gaze flickered over my casual clothes before landing on my face.

"Are you packing?"

I completely ignored her question and asked one of my own in a flat tone. "Why are you here?"

"Arthur brought me."

She stepped further into the house, looking around like she owned the place. "My lease expired, and I haven't found a new condo yet. He told me to crash here. Said I could stay as long as I need."

I gave a curt nod and let out a flat "Oh."

Caroline clearly hadn't anticipated such a deadpan reaction. Her smug smile faltered for a second.

"You don't mind, do you?"

She tilted her head, giving me a look of fake innocence.

"I mean, I told him it might be a little awkward, but Arthur absolutely insisted. He said..."

"If he told you to stay, then stay."

I cut her off abruptly.

"It's a big house. There are plenty of rooms."

She tightened her lips, striding over to the plush living room sofa and sitting down like a queen on her throne.

"You really are so generous."

"You were generous enough to force your way into this marriage, and now you're generous enough to let me move in."

I looked at her, suddenly finding the whole situation incredibly amusing.

I didn't bother validating her petty bait. I turned on my heel and headed for the stairs.

Feeling completely dismissed, Caroline raised her voice, her tone turning sharp. "Serena Kensington, I am talking to you."

I paused on the first step and looked over my shoulder.

"I heard you."

"But you didn't come here to make polite conversation with me, so why are we wasting each other's time?"

"I have packing to do."

Caroline shot up from the sofa. The fake, polite smile completely vanished from her face.

"You're leaving?" she blurted out, her voice dripping with disbelief.

"Obviously."

"Did you think I was going to stick around to be the third wheel in my own house?"

Caroline stood completely paralyzed by the sofa.

I turned back around and marched up the stairs, leaving her alone in the massive living room.

I opened the doors to my walk-in closet and started pulling dresses off their hangers.

After three years of marriage, I didn't actually have that many clothes.

Arthur had never taken me shopping. He had never bought me a single gift.

No anniversary presents. No birthday surprises. Definitely no Valentine's Day flowers.

Thinking about it now, my dedication was truly pathetic.

I folded my last cashmere coat, tucked it into the box, and was just reaching for the packing tape when my phone buzzed.

It was a text from Arthur.

"I have a business dinner tonight. I won't be home to eat. Caroline just moved in, so be a good host and help her get settled in the guest suite."

I locked the screen, tossed the phone onto the bed, and kept taping my boxes.

By the time the sun started setting, my closet and study were completely boxed up.

When I walked downstairs, Caroline was sitting elegantly on the sofa, sipping an espresso.

Hearing my footsteps, she glanced up. Her eyes instantly locked onto the manila envelope resting on the coffee table.

"What's that?"

I didn't answer. I just walked over, adjusted the envelope so it sat perfectly in the center of the table, and sat down in the armchair across from her.

Caroline stared at the thick envelope for a few seconds before letting out a short, mocking laugh.

"Divorce papers?"

I stayed silent, letting my silence act as a confirmation.

Her eyes immediately lit up. It wasn't shock in her gazeit was pure, unfiltered thrill.

"Are you seriously divorcing him?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"Whenever he gets home. I'll tell him tonight."

I crossed my legs and leaned back. "This marriage was just a business transaction to begin with. Now that the companies are stable, dragging this out doesn't benefit anyone."

She stared at me for a long time, her eyes narrowing as she tried to read me.

"Serena."

She dropped her voice into a hushed, conspiratorial tone.

"Do you really not love him? Or is this just some desperate act to get his attention?"

The question actually caught me off guard for a second.

Did I not love him?

Three years ago, when I first put on the white dress, I was full of hope.

The man waiting at the altar was devastatingly handsome, fiercely intelligent, and commanded every room he walked into.

I honestly believed that if I was just flawless enough, considerate enough, and patient enough, the ice around his heart would melt and he would finally look at me.

But it didn't take long for reality to crush that delusion into dust.

"It doesn't matter anymore."

I looked Caroline dead in the eyes.

"Whether I loved him or not, it's over."

At nine o'clock sharp, the front door opened, and Arthur walked in.

His eyes immediately found Caroline sitting on the sofa, and the hard lines of his face softened into something warm.

"Caroline. Are you settling in okay?"

Caroline beamed at him, her voice dripping with honey.

"It's been wonderful."

Only then did Arthur bother to acknowledge my existence.

His gaze swept over me, drifted down to the manila envelope on the coffee table, and finally landed on the stack of moving boxes piled near the stairs.

He frowned slightly.

"What's with the cardboard boxes?"

I stood up from the armchair, picked up the envelope, and held it out to him.

"Arthur. We need to talk."

He didn't reach for the envelope right away. He just stared at me, a flicker of genuine confusion in his dark eyes.

"What is this?"

"Divorce papers."

The living room fell into a suffocating silence.

Caroline gripped the handle of her espresso cup so tightly her knuckles turned white. She didn't blink, her eyes glued to Arthur's face.

Arthur looked down at me. His expression barely shifted.

There was no anger. No panic. Not even a trace of surprise.

He just stayed quiet for a few agonizing seconds before finally reaching out and taking the envelope from my hand.

"When did you draft this?"

"Last week."

He pulled the thick stack of papers out and scanned the pages from top to bottom.

When he reached the section detailing the division of assets, his frown deepened into a harsh crease.

"You're not asking for a single cent?"

"No."

"You don't even want the house?"

"This estate is your pre-marital asset. It has nothing to do with me."

He slowly lifted his eyes to meet mine. There was an emotion swirling in his gaze that I couldn't quite decipher.

"Serena, are you throwing a tantrum?"

I almost laughed in his face.

A tantrum?

You only throw a tantrum when you still desperately care about someone and want them to prove they love you back.

My heart was completely dead. What was there to throw a tantrum over?

"I'm not throwing a tantrum."

"I am dead serious. We got married because our families needed it. The crisis is over. There's zero logical reason to keep pretending."

Arthur stared at me, the silence stretching out between us.

He looked at me as if he was studying a stranger, trying to calculate my hidden angle.

"Are you absolutely sure about this?"

"Crystal clear."

He tossed the legal documents onto the coffee table, unbuttoned his suit jacket, and sank heavily onto the sofa.

"Fine," he said.

One word. Cold, sharp, and totally void of hesitation.

Beside him, Caroline sucked in a sharp breath, immediately ducking her head to hide the triumphant smirk pulling at the corners of her mouth.

Watching her terrible acting, I realized my heart wasn't reacting at all.

I wasn't angry. I wasn't heartbroken. I didn't feel wronged.

I just felt numb.

"When are you going to sign it?" I asked.

Arthur leaned back against the leather cushions and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Tomorrow. I had drinks at the dinner tonight. I have a headache."

"Alright."

I turned to walk up the stairs when his voice stopped me.

"Serena."

I paused on the bottom step but didn't look back.

"Where are you going to stay after you move out?"

"I already signed a lease on an apartment."

Silence hung in the air behind me for a few seconds.

"If you don't have a place lined up right away, you can stay in one of the guest rooms."

He said it so casually, like he was offering a stray dog a blanket in the garage.

I turned around and looked down at him.

He was sitting on the sofa, his jacket still on, his tie loosened and crooked. He looked incredibly drained.

Caroline pressed her lips together, clearly livid that he was offering me a place to stay under the same roof as her.

"No need. Once I walk out that door, I'm never coming back."

I turned back around and walked up the stairs.

Behind me, I could hear Caroline murmuring something in a hushed, placating voice. Arthur muttered a low reply, the words muffled by the distance.

But right before I closed my bedroom door, I distinctly heard Caroline let out a soft, victorious laugh.

The next morning, when I walked downstairs, Arthur was already sitting at the dining table.

He was wearing a tailored navy loungewear set. His hair was messy, a few dark strands falling over his forehead, making his sharp features look even more striking.

A cup of black coffee and an untouched sandwich sat in front of him, but his attention was entirely locked on his phone.

Martha was bustling around the kitchen. Hearing my footsteps, she popped her head out. "Ma'am, what would you like for breakfast?"

"Just the oatmeal, Martha. Thanks."

I pulled out a chair at the opposite end of the long dining table, leaving three empty seats between us.

He glanced up from his screen, looked at me, and set his phone face down on the table.

"I signed the papers."

I looked up from my bowl and saw the manila envelope sitting squarely on the center console.

"You were right."

He picked up his mug and took a slow sip of black coffee.

"Ending this quickly is the best move for both of us."

If anyone else had said that to me, I probably would have felt a sting of humiliation.

But coming from him? It was exactly what I expected.

"I'll go file the paperwork at the courthouse today."

"Okay."

He set his mug down. His dark eyes locked onto my face and stayed there for two uncomfortable seconds.

"Serena, did you ever regret these last three years?"

The question came completely out of left field.

I froze for a second, then genuinely thought about it.

"Regret isn't the right word. It just feels like a massive waste of time."

His index finger twitched against the mahogany table. It was a microscopic movement, but I caught it.

"A waste of time."

He repeated the four words slowly, testing the weight of them.

"You think being married to me was a waste of time?"

"What else would you call it?" I shot back. "Do you honestly think anything from the last three years is worth remembering?"

He didn't answer.

"In three years of marriage, how many times did you sit down and eat dinner with me? How many nights did you actually come home? Do you know my favorite food? Do you even know my birthday?"

I pushed the bowl of oatmeal away and stared him down.

"You don't. You don't know a damn thing about me. Because for the last three years, every single ounce of your energy was dedicated to Caroline."

His mask finally cracked. A deep furrow appeared between his brows, and his jaw tightened.

"When you agreed to this marriage, you knew exactly what the dynamic was going to be," he said, his voice dropping an octave.

"I know."

I nodded calmly.

"That's exactly why I never blamed you. Like I said, it was a transaction. We got what we needed. Now the deal is over, and we go our separate ways."

I stood up, walked over to the console, and picked up the envelope. I pulled the papers out to check.

On the very last page, his signatureArthur Harringtonwas slashed across the line in bold, aggressive ink.

He actually signed it.

I suddenly felt like the last three years had been a suffocating fever dream. Now I was finally waking up, holding the only proof that it ever happened.

"Let's go. To the courthouse," I said.

He gave a curt nod, turned around, and went upstairs to change, leaving me alone in the dining room.

Five minutes later, he came back down. He was wearing a charcoal wool overcoat and black trousers. He looked immaculate, sharp, and untouchable.

He grabbed his car keys from the foyer tray and shot me a look.

"Let's go."

The drive to the courthouse was agonizingly silent. You could hear a pin drop in the luxury sedan.

He drove with aggressive precision, both hands gripping the leather steering wheel, his eyes locked dead ahead. He didn't say a single word.

I sat in the passenger seat, watching the city skyline blur past the tinted window.

As we drove past a familiar intersection, I spotted a specific French bakery. It was the exact bakery Caroline was obsessed with.

The same bakery Arthur had spent two hours driving through gridlock traffic just to buy her a slice of cake.

"In the last three years, was there anything you wanted to do but didn't get the chance to?" he suddenly asked, shattering the silence.

I blinked, completely thrown by the question.

"Yes."

"What was it?"

"I wanted to see the Northern Lights."

"I've always wanted to go, but taking a trip like that alone felt pathetic."

He fell silent for a long time.

"You can go with friends now."

"Yeah."

We didn't speak again.

The courthouse wasn't busy. The clerk took our IDs and the signed settlement, running through the mandatory checklist in a bored, bureaucratic drone.

"Are both parties consenting to this divorce?"

"Yes," I said.

"Yes," he echoed.

"Are there any disputes regarding the division of assets?"

"No."

"No."

The clerk slammed a heavy stamp down on the papers and slid two pristine divorce decrees across the counter.

Dark blue covers with gold foil lettering.

I opened mine. The date of dissolution was stamped starkly across the page. Today.

When we walked out of the courthouse, the midday sun was blinding. I had to squint against the glare.

Arthur stood next to me on the concrete steps, holding his copy of the decree.

He stared straight ahead at the bustling street, and suddenly, he spoke.

"Serena, I'm sorry."