Fifth anniversary

My life took a weird turn when I married Ethan Carter. Let's just say, he wasn't thrilled about it. So thrilled, in fact, that he ditched our wedding reception to go race cars. The honeymoon phase? More like a hurricane of his ridiculous antics. I became the laughingstock of our social circle, and Ethan, ever the charmer, would just smirk and say, "You asked for this, babe. Deal with it." Everyone, including him, thought I was stuck with him forever. Then came our fifth anniversary. I gave him divorce papers and a genuine smile. "Finally getting rid of you," I said. He lost it. Trashed the penthouse. Seriously.

I arrived at the yacht party just as things were getting heated. Ethan was sprawled on a sofa, a blonde draped across his lap, her fingers teasing his neck. The crowd was chanting, "Kiss! Kiss!" Champagne flutes were raised high. Blondy looked ready to pounce, but Ethan’s eyes scanned the crowd, landing on me. A playful smirk tugged at his lips. "Hold your horses, folks. My wife's watching." The crowd quieted down, muttering a chorus of "Mrs. Carter." Blondy shot me a look, but didn’t budge. "Doesn't that make it more fun?" she purred, snuggling closer to Ethan. The crowd buzzed again, anticipating a show. Everyone knew our marriage was a sham. Ethan’s philandering was legendary, and his flavor-of-the-month never worried about me, the wife in name only. I ignored her and looked straight at Ethan. "The paparazzi are swarming the harbor, waiting for you to dock," I said calmly. "Coming home?" He didn't move, that playful smirk still in place. Emboldened, Blondy leaned in for a kiss, throwing a smug look my way. Suddenly, a speedboat zipped towards us, cameras flashing. I winced. We were busted. A media storm was brewing, and Ethan, the instigator, chuckled. "Sure, honey," he said, abruptly standing up, sending Blondy tumbling to the deck. He ignored her whimpers and strolled over to me, his hand gripping my waist. "Let's go home, shall we?" His eyes held a glint of mischief. I knew he didn't care about the girl. He'd set the whole thing up for the paparazzi. He knew I'd be the one taking the heat. He got off on it. I kept my face neutral and took his hand. "Let's go." He let out a short, sarcastic laugh. I ignored it and led him to the speedboat. In public, I was always the perfect, composed Mrs. Carter. It was part of the deal. Only in the car did I let go of his hand. He grabbed it back, lacing our fingers together. "Stay in character, babe. Gotta commit to the performance," he mocked. I turned to the window and let him have his fun. Back at the penthouse, Ethan’s antics escalated. He pinned me against the wall, our joined hands raised above my head. The dim lighting highlighted the predatory gleam in his eyes. "Ethan," I said wearily, "I'm tired." He cut me off, nipping at my collarbone. "Mrs. Carter, it's your wifely duty. Cooperate."

I had no grounds for refusal. Every time he called me "Mrs. Carter," it was a reminder of my role, the...