The Paradox of Divorce

It's been three years since I married Ethan, and he hasn't touched me. Wearing a lacy nightgown, I faked a hickey and sent him a "sleeping selfie," taken from his supposed POV.

"Dude, she's amazing. Think you could speed up that divorce and let me have her?"

I figured Ethan, upon receiving this anonymous message, would be disgusted and furious, ready to discard me – his sister's stand-in – like trash. I thought, finally, this would be my ticket out.

1.

My sister was on vacation in Hawaii, celebrating their third wedding anniversary. She asked what I wanted as a gift. I asked for a burner phone.

Clutching the phone, I stood in the empty hotel room, letting out a weary sigh. Then, I slipped into the flimsy nightgown I'd bought specifically for this plan. I stared at my reflection, creating the illusion of passionate marks on my neck and collarbone. Hickeys, scattered like a constellation, as if left by a demanding lover. I even tore the strap of the nightgown for effect. Finally, I smudged my lipstick, perfecting the post-coital look.

I arranged the other side of the bed to look slept in, then lay down, closing my eyes. Camera set to self-timer, his perspective. Three, two, one.

The photo captured a woman seemingly lost in post-bliss slumber, utterly unguarded. I stared at it for a long time. Ethan's reputation flashed through my mind. A shark in the boardroom, ruthless, cold. But the Ethan I knew best was the man who reserved all his tenderness, all his affection, for my sister.

I'd braced myself for the worst. Even if he felt nothing for me, surely a man couldn't tolerate such blatant betrayal. He might retaliate. But ultimately, he'd be repulsed, and he'd let me go.

Divorce. That's all I wanted. I closed my eyes and hit send. The message, casual and taunting: "Dude, she's amazing. Think you could speed up that divorce and let me have her?" along with the picture. Sent.

2.

Barely two seconds later, a reply.

Ethan: "Who is this?"

I took my time changing, savoring the imagined turmoil on the other end. Was he furious, wanting to tear the anonymous sender limb from limb? The golden boy, Mr. Perfect, finally having his emotions toyed with, and by me, the one he thought he had completely under his thumb. Three years of suffocating misery finally yielded a sliver of satisfaction.

He sent two more messages while I changed.

"Don't try that cheap AI face-swap trick. Tell me what you want."

"I suggest you come clean. It's the only way you'll walk away from this."

I chuckled.

"Ethan, AI face-swap? Just ask your wife. I'm sure those hickeys on her neck haven't magically disappeared. ＾ｖ＾”

I dared to taunt him because I knew he was out of town on a crucial business deal. He wouldn't be back for at least two weeks.

Suddenly, my phone rang. My heart leaped. It was Ethan. I stared at the screen, letting it ring until it went to voicemail. He called again, and again. He was livid.

My heart hammered in my chest. I was walking a tightrope.

I texted: "Ethan, stop cal...