Divorce After Deception

When I picked up the ring at the jewelry store, a notification from Twitter buzzed on my phone.

It was a post with a photo captioned: "True love knows no bounds." The image showed a man’s silhouette, smiling warmly at a woman.

The figure was unmistakably familiar—someone I saw every day and was supposed to marry in just a week.

"Miss Angelina, your ring," the store clerk said, handing me the custom piece I had ordered a year ago.

With a blank expression, I took the ring and went back to the car. I glanced at my young assistant in the driver’s seat, took his hand, and slipped the ring onto his finger. "It's yours now," I said.

Richard was taken aback, looking at me in shock. "Angelina?"

"Take me home," I instructed, leaning back in the passenger seat and closing my eyes.

"Are we not going to check out the wedding venue?" Richard asked hesitantly.

I didn’t answer. My mind was swirling with rightful anger and betrayal, while another part of me was considering the best way to proceed with a divorce.

Richard, a junior from my university days, was attentive and astute, knowing better than to pry. He drove us back to my apartment instead of the estate I shared with Evander.

Once home, I went straight to my study and opened my phone to take a closer look at the tweet.

I recognized the poster. She was Evander's long-lost love, a high school and college sweetheart he had dated for three years. She eventually moved abroad, and they parted on good terms after one final trip to the Scottish Highlands—an overused yet seemingly harmless story.

It’s been seven years since their breakup. Evander never hesitated to mention her around me. At reunions, his friends were always friendly, occasionally reminiscing about that relationship before encouraging Evander to cherish what he had now.

What did Evander say back then? I closed my eyes to remember.

He had earnestly promised, "I know. I’d never do anything to hurt Angelina. I’ve moved on."

Right, that’s what he called moving on.

No matter. I can show Evander what it truly means to let go.

I met Evander three years after he broke up with his first love, during the early days of our entrepreneurial journey. I had an inheritance from my parents, while he, although from a wealthy family, insisted on starting from scratch and ended up in a tight spot. Back then, we were both vying for the same client, but I came out on top. He raised his glass of whiskey, eyes gleaming with a mix of admiration and resolve, and said, “Next time, I won’t lose!”

After that, Evander and I would often cross paths—competing for contracts, meeting clients, trying to outdrink each other, and exchanging insults when upset. Yet, we’d also laugh about challenging clients when things were good. Our mutual friends joked that we might as well team up instead of constantly competing.

One evening at a pub, Evander turned to me with a sincere expression. “Angelina, maybe that's not such a bad idea!”

I gave him a playful smack on the cheek and mumbled, “Keep dreaming.” Once sober, Evander began to pursue me. His attempts were clumsy, his methods endearingly old-fashioned, and I would tease him. He’d feign embarrassment, saying, “I’m not very experienced with this.”

I laughed, asking if he was only trying to date me for a business partnership. He scratched his head, blushing, and turned away. “If I said I’ve always thought you were amazing and unique, would you laugh at me? Even though we used to be rivals…”

I clicked my tongue and gave him a quick kiss. Naturally, we became a couple.

Before we went public, Evander confessed about his first love. He showed me his phone; their communication stopped just months after she went abroad. It was clear they had nothing left to say to each other. Evander was honest, “I can’t pretend she never mattered, I’m human. But if you think I’d want anything more with her, you’re wrong. I’ve moved forward, Angelina. Do you believe me?”

Why wouldn’t I? We all have pasts. So did I.

Looking at Evander, I could see a faint resemblance to someone I once knew, but it didn’t bother me. It was all in the past.

I called Evander, but he didn’t pick up. Instead, he texted back, “Honey, I’m busy. Give me two hours.”

Two hours? Evander must have overestimated. The whole thing wouldn’t take more than thirty minutes, even if I’m being generous.

I checked Twitter, and there was a post from my “white knight.” He’d shared a photo of a luxury hotel suite, with Evander’s hands visibly arranging the bed. “Back in familiar territory, glad he’s here. Mr. Goldenhair even set up my favorite blue roses.”

The location was the city where Evander was on a business trip, where we were about to open a new branch. That suite was one Evander used to book regularly for me.

Goldenhair? Funny. Evander dyed his hair a light gold color in high school, hence the nickname. If only he’d told me he enjoyed being called a puppy, I would’ve taken him to get neutered.