Part 1After he and his lover announced their relationship, I filed for divorce.

Gabe’s parents praised his public lover as their future daughter-in-law, and called me their “goddaughter,”.

When I questioned the humiliation, Gabe defended them, told me to “learn from Serena.”

That was the moment I understood: in this family, my dignity was never worth anything to them.

So I wiped the burn, looked him in the eye, and delivered the only line he never saw coming—

“If she’s the one you value, then let her be your wife. I’m done.”

Before our marriage, I signed a prenuptial confidentiality agreement, agreeing to remain the hidden wife of an Academy Award Winner. If I ever initiated a divorce, I’d walk away with only $18.80 in compensation.

For three years of marriage, I’ve watched him flaunt his so-called "Publicity Stunt Pairing" with that colleague. They’ve traveled together, attended events as a couple, and even been photographed entering private hotels arm in arm.

Meanwhile, as his “perfect housewife,” I’ve been stuck caring for his bedridden parents and working as his assistant—washing his clothes, cooking his meals, and putting up with his excuses.

I didn’t realize how far this charade would go until one night, when his “Shining Star” called, whining about fans begging them to marry.

“When are you going to make me your wife?” she pouted.

He replied softly, “Don’t worry, darling. I’ll give you the wedding of the century soon. Promise.”

The cold wind sweeping in from the balcony carried the sound of Gabe Whitmore’s voice. His words made my body stiffen under the blankets, my throat tightening until I could barely breathe.

On the other end of the call, Serena Sterling’s tearful plea was unmistakable. “Gabe, everyone’s looking forward to our wedding. I can’t wait anymore. Please, hurry up and marry me!”

Standing on the balcony, his features softened under the dim light as he coaxed her like she was made of glass. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I won’t let you down.”

Even in the dead of night, being interrupted didn’t bother him. Talking to his delicate "White Moonlight" seemed to be a labor of love.

When Gabe returned to the bedroom, there was still a trace of a smile in his eyes. But the moment he saw me sitting on the edge of the bed, his expression darkened.

“Alexis, what are you doing sitting there in the middle of the night? Are you trying to scare me to death?”

I swallowed my bitterness and forced a smile. “What about you? How does it feel, sweet-talking your lover at this hour?”

“Lover? Don’t be ridiculous,” Gabe snapped, irritation flickering in his eyes. “What I have with Serena is strictly for the fans. Don’t disrespect her with such vile accusations.”

The audacity of his response made my voice tremble. “Disrespect? Tell me, Gabe, what respectable ‘colleague couple’ in the industry plans a wedding?”

His jaw clenched, and he averted his gaze. “You heard that?”

Rubbing the back of his neck, he muttered, “I don’t have a choice. The fans demand it. Serena and I have fans all over the world. If we don’t finish the act, it’d be a slap in the face to her efforts.”

“Efforts?” My chest tightened with sharp, numbing pain. My body trembled as though it had a mind of its own.

For three years, I had to watch the world treat them as the perfect couple. I had to watch them flaunt their love in front of cameras, smiling, holding hands. All while I, Gabe Whitmore’s real wife, was kept hidden like some dirty little secret.

Yet he felt guilty about letting Serena down? What about me? What about the years I spent swallowing my pride and staying silent?

“Alexis,” Gabe began, his tone turning righteous, “this is my career. You know that. Just bear with it a little longer, okay? Everything I do is for the job.”

He always justified it this way. Every scripted kiss, every public display of affection—it was all “work.” For a long time, I believed him.

Until a friend sent me pictures of him and Serena entering a private hotel suite together just two nights ago.

Now, his “work” involved planning a wedding so grand it would shock the world.

Meanwhile, when we married, there wasn’t even a ceremony.

My voice cracked as I struggled to speak. “Gabe, Serena is just a colleague, right? You’re giving her the wedding of the century. What about me? I’m your wife. Did I ever get a wedding?”

When we tied the knot, Gabe was still a struggling extra, scraping by on bit parts. His parents were so paranoid I was only marrying him for his money that they treated me with disdain from the start.

To ease their fears, I signed that ridiculous confidentiality agreement, even agreeing not to have a wedding.

Gabe swore to my parents, “Once I’ve made it big, I’ll give Alexis the wedding she deserves.”

But even after he became an Academy Award Winner, he never brought it up again.

The one time I hinted that we could have a small ceremony with just family, he waved it off, saying, “Work’s too busy. Maybe later.”

But now? Serena’s single phone call was all it took for him to agree.

I must’ve seemed unreasonable to him because his tone grew sharp with irritation. “Alexis, I’ve explained this a thousand times. Why can’t you understand? Serena and I are a global sensation. I can’t just walk away.”

“Can’t you wait a little longer?”

I didn’t answer.

The night stretched on, cold and cutting. Looking at the impatience on his face, I suddenly realized how exhausted I was. I didn’t want to wait anymore.