He Let Another Woman Play My Wife, So I Walked Away as His Real Wife Chapter 10

He Let Another Woman Play My Wife, So I Walked Away as His Real Wife Chapter 10

Two years later, my team and I opened our own independent studio.

There was no red carpet on opening day and no elaborate ceremony. My colleagues bought a cake and

gathered in the conference room to celebrate with me.

Written across the cake were the words.

[Erin, welcome back to your own life.]

I stared at them for a long time before finally smiling and blowing out the candles.

Over the years, Gavin occasionally had things sent to me through other people.

The first year, it was the company history booklet with every photo of me restored.

The second year, it was the design sketches I had once left behind in the apartment we had shared.

This year, he sent only a card.

[Happy anniversary.]

The words had been crossed out. Underneath, he had written:

[I’m sorry. I forgot we don’t have an anniversary anymore.]

I put the card back in the envelope and sent it straight back to him.

Later, I heard from people we both knew that Gavin never got together with Claire. Claire left the city, and the group of friends who had joined those yearly bets had long since drifted apart.

Gavin kept the apartment we had once shared. His fingerprint was still registered in the smart lock, but I

never went back.

At the company anniversary event, he canceled every game. The opening shot of the anniversary video was replaced with a photo of me packing products in the warehouse during the company’s earliest days.

Someone asked him why he hadn’t removed his ex–wife from the video.

He answered, “I’ve already been erased from her life. The least I can do is not erase her from the company’s history as well.”

One month after my studio opened, I saw Gavin again at an industry forum.

He was sitting in the audience. I was standing onstage.

After my speech, he didn’t stop me the way he used to. He only called softly from the far end of the corridor.

“Erin.”

I turned around.

He looked at me for a long time before finally asking, “Do you still hate me?”

I thought about it.

“No.”

He clearly thought that meant he still had a chance.

I continued, “But I won’t forgive you either. I don’t hate you because you don’t make me angry anymore,

and you don’t make me sad anymore. Gavin, there is no future for us.”

His expression fell again.

After a moment, he nodded.

“All right.”

In seven years, it was the first time he had accepted one of my decisions without using jokes, bets, or

so–called love to force me to change my mind.

It was also the last time we ever saw each other.

That winter, I bought another apartment.

After the closing was complete and I had the keys, the real estate agent asked if I wanted to register any family members‘ fingerprints in the smart lock.

I shook my head.

“Not right now.”

The lock recognized my fingerprint, and a clear electronic voice sounded.

[Welcome home.]

There was no furniture inside yet, but sunlight poured through the floor–to–ceiling windows and filled the entire living room.

I set down the cardboard boxes I had brought from my parents‘ old apartment. Inside, there were no wedding photos, no Whitmore family signet ring, and nothing meant to prove that I was someone’s wite There were only my books, my work files, and photographs I had taken while working and traveling through different cities over the years.

I once believed that a spare key to that apartment, a seat beside Gavin at family dinners, and his public acknowledgment of me as his wife were proof that those seven years meant something.

Eventually, I understood that whether my life felt secure should never have depended on his approval. A relationship that needs jealousy, conflict, and endless tests to prove love is already broken at its core.

Claire played “Mrs. Whitmore” for seven days.

Gavin thought those seven days were only meant to test how much I loved him. But those seven days made

one thing completely clear to tue: the marriage was no longer worth continuing.

And they finally let me start living for myself.

I closed the door and slipped the new key into my own pocket.

Outside the windows, the city lights slowly came on. Messages kept appearing in the new project’s team

chat. Someone was asking what time tomorrow’s meeting started, someone else had just sent over a finished proposal, and a friend was asking if I wanted to go to an exhibition that weekend.

My work was fulfilling, and so was my life.

I no longer needed to prove to anyone that I was worthy of love.

For those seven days, I let her have that role.

For the rest of my life, I would make my own choices.