After My Husband Wished for Divorce, I Became His Boss

I stood before the full-length mirror in our Beverly Hills master suite, carefully dabbing peach-toned concealer onto the purple-yellow bruises marking my inner forearms. The morning light filtering through the gauzy curtains was unforgiving, highlighting every imperfection I was desperate to hide.

Two days ago, Rachel had called out for James in that fragile, trembling voice she'd perfected over the last year. I'd been in the hallway between them. When James came rushing to her rescue—as he always did—he'd shoved me aside with enough force to send me stumbling against the doorframe. The bruises were shaped exactly like his fingers.

"It's not that bad," I whispered to my reflection, wincing as I blended the makeup over tender skin. "It could be worse."

I'd become an expert at such rationalizations. An expert at hiding—bruises, tears, disappointment. An expert at pretending our marriage wasn't crumbling beneath the weight of Rachel's calculated helplessness.

I capped the concealer and studied my handiwork. Perfect. No one would see the marks of my husband's indifference. Just as no one saw that each of his nine wishes—wishes I'd promised on our wedding day to grant throughout our marriage—had been spent not on us, but on Rachel.

Move Rachel into our guest room. Move Rachel into the larger guest suite. Let Rachel redecorate the living room. Let Rachel join us for our anniversary dinner. Each wish taking another piece of our marriage, another piece of me.

I heard his footsteps in the hallway before I saw him. Heavy, hesitant. I knew those footsteps as intimately as I knew his heartbeat, once pressed against mine every night as we slept.

James appeared in the doorway, silhouetted against the dim hallway light. His tall frame seemed smaller somehow, shoulders hunched as if carrying an impossible weight. His hands trembled slightly at his sides. In the two years of our marriage, I'd never seen him look so uncertain.

"Isabella," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Can we talk?"

I nodded, setting down my makeup brush with deliberate care. Whatever was coming, I would face it with dignity.

He stepped into our bedroom—a room he rarely entered anymore, preferring to sleep in the study near Rachel's suite. The distance between us seemed to grow with each passing second.

"I need to use my tenth wish," he said, eyes heavy with what looked like regret. "I need to do what's right."

My heart stuttered in my chest. The tenth wish. The last one. I'd imagined this moment differently once—perhaps him wishing for a second honeymoon, or something meaningful that would finally bring us back together.

"I want a divorce," he continued, the words falling between us like stones. "You deserve better than this, than me. Rachel needs me now—my brother would have wanted me to take care of her and the baby. I can't be the husband you deserve while fulfilling that duty."

The air left my lungs in a silent rush. Despite everything, despite the growing distance and Rachel's manipulations,