Part 1They Sold My Wife So I Destroyed Their Empire

From blind date to the altar, it took us exactly three months.

On our wedding day, I couldn't stop smiling. My cheeks physically ached from how wide I was grinning.

But that very night, she locked me out of the master bedroom. For the next six months of our marriage, she wouldn't even let me touch her.

Then came the annual university faculty gala. Sitting across from us at the white-clothed table, her former senior classmate swirled his wine and smirked at me. "Keeping up with the conversation, Nathan? Or is the academic jargon a bit over your head?"

I glanced at my wife sitting beside me. She kept her eyes glued to her lap, not even sparing me a glance.

When we got home, I slid a manila envelope across the kitchen island. "Look it over. If the terms are acceptable, just sign the divorce papers."

To my shock, my historically cold, detached wife looked up at me, her eyes brimming with tears.

* * *

For the first six months of our marriage, the phrase I heard most was, "I have to prep my syllabus. Don't bother me."

She would then vanish into the study, the heavy oak door clicking shut, and stay there until the early hours of the morning. There was practically zero communication between us. We weren't a husband and wife; we were two strangers co-signing a lease under the same roof.

My name is Nathan Gallagher. I’m thirty years old, and I run a boutique indie game development studio. It’s a lean operation—two developers, two marketing leads, an accountant, and a legal counsel. Every year, we launch a few casual mobile games. They generally get a solid reception, and the profit margins are more than enough to keep the team comfortably afloat.

Her name is Eleanor Hughes. Twenty-eight, an only child, and an adjunct professor of literature.

We met through a mutual acquaintance in our family’s social circles—a blind date, essentially. The first time I saw her, she was wearing a simple white sundress, her hair pulled up into a messy bun, completely devoid of makeup. My first impression was that she was striking, but the longer I looked at her, the more captivating she became. There was a quiet, magnetic gravity to her. By the time the waiter cleared our plates, I had already made up my mind.

And so, with my heart hammering against my ribs, I asked if she would be open to seeing me again.

She agreed immediately. There was no coyness, no blushing hesitation, but there was no visible excitement either. Just a flat, pragmatic acceptance.

We dated for three months. A handful of dinners, a few movies. I was always the one initiating. She never turned me down, except for one time when she had a genuine scheduling conflict, which she calmly explained.

I was never entirely sure if she actually liked me. But I was absolutely certain that I loved her.

At the three-month mark, I bought a ring and proposed. She said yes.

On the day of the wedding, her parents, Arthur and Margaret Hughes, looked like they were attending a funeral. They maintained a frosty, tight-lipped demeanor the entire day. I tried to give them grace. I was taking away their only daughter, their prized possession. If I were in their shoes, I’d probably be defensive, too.

That night, buzzing with adrenaline and a quiet kind of reverence, I pushed open the door to the master bedroom.

She immediately shoved me back into the hallway, her hands trembling but firm against my chest. "You’ve been drinking. Sleep in the guest room."

A knot of disappointment tightened in my gut, but I didn't argue. She had told me previously that she was a virgin. I figured she wanted to save her first time for a moment when everything was perfect, not when her husband smelled like champagne and exhaustion.

The Sunday after the wedding, tradition dictated we go to her parents' house for a family dinner. As the new son-in-law, I knew I had to make a flawless impression. I stopped at a high-end boutique and bought a bottle of vintage Macallan 25 and a gorgeous Hermès silk scarf.

When we walked in, Margaret was setting porcelain plates on the dining table. She glanced at the elegant shopping bags in my hands and offered nothing but a flat stare.

I put on my best, warmest smile. "Margaret, I brought some scotch for Arthur, and I picked this up for you—"

"Just leave it on the credenza," she interrupted, her tone sharp and dismissive.

I stood awkwardly in the foyer, the heat rising to the tips of my ears. It wasn't until I stepped further into the living room that I realized someone else was already sitting at the dining table.

It was a man, looking entirely too comfortable, smiling warmly at my wife.

"Ellie. It’s been a long time."

Eleanor froze. Her entire body went rigid, and for a second, she looked like she forgot how to breathe. When she finally spoke, her voice possessed a fragile tremor I had never heard before. "Simon? What are you doing here?"

The man’s smile didn’t waver. "What, not happy to see me?"

Eleanor dropped her gaze to the floor. She didn't say a word.

I looked at her in genuine shock. In all the time I’d known Eleanor, she had been the epitome of emotional baseline—always calm, always detached. I had never seen her this rattled.

I stepped forward and extended my hand. "Hi. Nathan Gallagher. I'm Eleanor's husband."

The man leaned back in his chair, his eyes doing a slow, appraising sweep of me from head to toe. He didn't stand up.

"Simon Crawford," he said smoothly. "Arthur’s former PhD student. And Ellie’s senior."

He let the silence stretch for a beat, then shifted his gaze back to my wife, his voice taking on a teasing, almost chiding tone. "Ellie, getting married is a massive life event. Why didn't you let me know?"

Eleanor just kept her head bowed, staring at the hardwood floor in absolute silence.