My husband, Wayne Clinton, promised me a honeymoon—five years late.

I was filled with anticipation and made sure every detail was perfect.

But just before we boarded, I realized we weren't traveling alone—his childhood sweetheart, Nikita Keith, was tagging along.

He brushed it off with a casual. "Nikita's never been abroad. Thought I'd bring her."

I voiced my discomfort, but he dismissed it as me being dramatic and even mocked me.

"Is it because you have no parents that you're so bitter toward people with real families?

"Nikita's like a sister to me. But you're an orphan—you wouldn't understand."

Still, I bit my tongue. I didn't want to ruin our long-overdue honeymoon.

But during the trip, we got caught in an avalanche. My leg was buried deep in the snow—I couldn't move.

And Wayne? He grabbed her first, then turned and ran.

He never looked back.

***

After three hours, I was finally pulled out of the snow.

"Ma'am, your husband and sister are waiting for you up ahead!"

The young rescuer pointed excitedly, like she was sharing great news.

I was frozen stiff. Slowly, I looked up.

There they were—Wayne and Nikita.

They wore matching black-and-white jackets—spotless and standing close together.

"You're so lucky! Two people are still missing from the avalanche!"

The girl exaggerated every word, thrilled I'd made it out.

But she didn't know.

She didn't know my husband had grabbed Nikita's hand and run. Without looking back. Without remembering me, buried alive behind him.

I lowered my head and dragged myself forward.

Wayne came up quickly and pulled me into his arms, full of concern.

"Honey, are you okay? Feeling sick? We'll find a doctor."

Behind him, Nikita's pale face was streaked with tears—like she was the one buried for three hours.

"I'm so sorry, Diana. It's all my fault. If I hadn't suggested skiing, you wouldn't have been in danger..."

I didn't even have time to speak.

Wayne let go of me and shielded Nikita behind him. His tone turned cold.

"Diana, don't blame Nikita. You agreed to this trip, too."

Right. I agreed. I was forced to agree.

After we landed in Switzerland, I got sick.

He didn't notice—never cared to, because Nikita wanted to ski.

He handed me the camera and told me to take their pictures.

I said I wasn't feeling well. He said I was ruining the mood.

He doted on her. He called her his sister.

But this was supposed to be our honeymoon—five years late!

He said I needed to stretch after long flights, so stop one was a fifteen-kilometer hike in Germany.

He said November was perfect for snow, so stop two was a glacier train ride in Switzerland.

He said we should be adventurous once in life, so stop camping in Whirinaki Forest Park.

But in the end, I was just an outsider—tolerating everything, backing down over and over, not even allowed to complain.

My anger burned out and turned to cold ashes.

I knew there was no point in asking anymore.

I said flatly, "Thank God I'm okay."

Then I kept walking toward the hotel. I'd come so close to dying. Now I just wanted to sleep.

As I passed Wayne, he suddenly grabbed my hand and shoved me forward.

I couldn't keep my balance, as I'd been frozen too long. I fell hard and couldn't get up.

He paused, then scoffed. "Diana Thornton, what are you pretending for? I barely touched you! Who are you putting on this act for?"

I looked straight at him.

"Wayne, I was buried in snow for three hours. I'm exhausted."

He blinked, then let go—but still scolded me.

"Even so, don't act like this. Nikita was scared out of her mind for those three hours you were missing. Who are you mad at?

"She ran all over asking for help. You didn't even say thank you. Is this how you treat people?"

His voice kept rising like I'd committed some crime.

Nikita tugged on his sleeve and spoke gently. "It's not like that. When Wayne pulled me away, he thought I was you..."

Then she covered her mouth like she was about to cry, stepped in front of him, and said righteously, "Diana, please don't misunderstand. It was chaos—Wayne thought I was you. If someone's to blame, blame me, not him."

Wayne pulled her close and gave me a disappointed look.

"Diana, don't push things too far."

I hadn't even said a word. Yet here they were, back-to-back with excuses—treating me like the villain.

Just a few days into this so-called honeymoon, I saw things clearly.

He always said Nikita was his half-sister.

But what kind of half-brother washes his sister's feet?

Peels her shrimp?

Washes her underwear?

All those special gestures—even as his wife for five years, I never got them.

I forced myself to stand and brushed off the snow.

"Why should I thank her?

"For crashing my honeymoon? For clinging to my husband every second? For dragging me skiing and turning me into her personal photographer?

"Thank you, Nikita. You've really outdone yourself."

Then I turned to Wayne and asked calmly, "Can I go back to the hotel now?"

He stared at me, gritting his teeth.

"Why do you have to be so passive-aggressive? Fine! Have it your way."

He took Nikita's hand and walked away.

I stood in the cold wind. My mind grew clearer, and my eyes stung sharper.

At night, I took my meds and lay in bed, drifting off.

Wayne walked in, holding a bowl of clam chowder.

"Diana said you didn't eat. She borrowed the hotel kitchen just to make you this—something to warm you up.

"She even cut her hand slicing the meat. Come on, try it. Drink it and stop being mad, okay?"

The strong smell of clam filled every corner of the room.

I felt sick.

But Wayne didn't seem to notice and kept bringing the bowl closer to my lips.

The stench made me gag. I lifted my hand and pushed it away.

Soup sloshed onto the blanket.

His face darkened instantly.

"What are you throwing a fit about now? We apologized and explained everything. What more do you want?

"Diana, enough is enough. Keep pushing, and you're just being ridiculous!"

His voice was sharp, full of impatience—like I was the problem.

I looked at the stained blanket and sighed.

"Wayne, I don't like clam."

He didn't even pause. "So? Not liking it doesn't mean you can't eat it. Clam is good for your body. A few bites won't kill you. Besides, Nikita made it herself—it's her kindness."

I stared at him, stunned by how self-righteous he sounded. Memories came rushing back.

Nikita loved cooking, but she was terrible at it.

On day three of our honeymoon in Switzerland, I wanted to eat at a proper restaurant. However, Nikita didn't want to come.

I begged Wayne to go with me.

Halfway there, Nikita called—said she was scared, alone in the hotel.

He didn't hesitate and said we should head back.

He gave me two options: go back with him or eat alone, ten kilometers away.

What a joke. This was my honeymoon.

But I couldn't even choose my own meal.

I looked at the steaming bowl, took it, and dumped it straight into the trash.

Then I turned to him calmly.

"It's gone. Happy now?"

Wayne just stood there, stone-faced.

I ignored him and reached for my phone to call housekeeping for fresh sheets.

Then he moved.

He grabbed the empty bowl and hurled it at the wall—shattering it into pieces.

"Diana, how did I never see how damn dramatic you are?"

He stormed out. The room fell silent again.

***

The next afternoon, the hotel butler knocked on my door.

He said my room needed to be renewed.

I frowned and told him my companion was handling it.

Yet, he kept his polite smile.

"If you mean Mr. Clinton and Ms. Keith, they checked out at noon. They mentioned catching a flight to their next stop. Unfortunately, they didn't extend your stay."

My room was cleared out.

My luggage was moved to the lounge on the first floor.

Over an hour later, I finally got Wayne on the phone.

His smug voice came through the line.

"Diana, take this as a lesson!

"You ruined the whole trip and made a big deal out of nothing. Nikita was right—being around someone as toxic as you is bad luck."

My throat felt stuffed with sand. I couldn't speak for a long time.

"Wayne, are you insane? Do you even know what you're doing?"

"Of course I do. You need to be put in your place. If you want me to come back for you, fine—apologize to Nikita on video and post it on your Instagram. Otherwise, forget it."

Click. He hung up.

I sat on the couch for a long time, watching snow fall outside the window.

We met in our senior year of college. He was a year younger than I.

I never liked younger men.

But back then, Wayne felt like the sun.

To someone like me, clawing her way through the dark, he brought light and warmth.

When I was harassed by a creepy coworker during my internship, he walked me home every night.

When my landlord scammed me, he showed up with law student friends to help.

Little by little, he broke through every wall I had.

But now, how could someone who once felt like the sun change so fast?

I didn't understand. And I didn't want to anymore.

I wiped my tears and forced myself to stay calm.

My passport and bank cards were gone—probably Wayne took them.

I started calling friends back home.

Three days later, I finally boarded a flight back to the States.

When I landed, I hugged my best friend tightly at the airport.

"I want a divorce."

With me out of the way, Nikita started acting fearless.

She posted on her Instagram three times a day.

In the videos, she and Wayne looked like a real couple.

Finally, someone couldn't stand it and left a comment.

"Just five words, this girl is a ho!"

I looked closer at the username—it was one of Wayne's buddies.

We'd met a few times at parties.

I didn't expect he was anything like Wayne and actually stood up for what's right.

I gave his comment a like.

After that, the videos stopped.

Three minutes later, I got an international call. It was Wayne.

"Diana, are you out of your damn mind?

"She's just a college girl who hasn't even graduated, and you're smearing her like this? What the hell is wrong with you?

"I've told you a million times, Nikita and I grew up like siblings. Not by blood, but closer than real. Don't use your filthy mind to taint us. But then again, what would an orphan like you know about family?"

This man, who once shared my bed, was now tearing into me for another woman.

I thought my heart had already gone numb. Turns out, it could still bleed.

"Heh. 'Siblings' who lick each other's fingers, who share a room, a tent, or even a night together? 'Siblings' who leave his wife behind in an avalanche but stay with his 'sister'? Wow. Truly touching."

Wayne snapped. He started swearing.

I hung up on him.

While he was still abroad, I moved out.

Before we got married, I worked hard and bought a tiny 45-square-meter house.

Now that we're divorcing, at least I've got a place to go.

The Clinton family is traditional. Wealthy.

Not long after we married, he begged me to quit my job and be a stay-at-home wife.

I was love-struck and agreed without thinking.

And for five years, I lived on his allowance, treated like a servant, not a wife.

When I heard he was coming back, I sent the divorce papers to his email.

No reply.

I called him, but no answer.

Then his assistant called me back.

"Ma'am, the boss says he'll see you—if you apologize to Ms. Keith."

"Did he read the divorce papers?"

"... He said if you want a divorce, talk to him directly. But that old trick again? He's not buying it."

I laughed.

"Wayne told you that himself? Where is he? Address?"

"He's celebrating Ms. Keith's birthday. If you want the address, post an apology on your Instagram..."

"Apologize, my ass!"

I hung up. Then opened my contact list. I clicked on Leroy Hewitt's name.

He used to speak up for what's right. Maybe he's still decent.

I sent him a message, and he replied almost instantly.

I grabbed the divorce papers and left.

At the restaurant, a tall figure leaned against the wall.

"Leroy?" I asked, confused.

He looked up and put his lighter away.

I asked, "Why are you outside?"

He was tall and strong but had a gentle voice and pale skin.

"Just thought I'd stop by. Maybe help you out."

I smiled, grateful, and pushed the door open a crack.

Laughter spilled out.

"Only you, Wayne, could think of something like this. You really just left Diana in Switzerland? Bet she cried like hell."

"When are you bringing her back, Wayne?"

I gripped the handle, listening to Wayne's calm drawl.

"What's the rush? I'll bring her back when she admits she was wrong. You guys don't know; she even emailed me a digital divorce agreement the other day. She wanted me to read it, ha! Hilarious. If she ever agrees to a divorce, I'll tattoo her name on my ass!

"Tsk. She's just panicking now. Give her a few days; let her calm down. She still thinks she's the campus belle of New York University or something."

I exhaled. Then shoved the door open hard.

"Wayne, no need for you to bring me back. I'm already here."

I walked right up to him and slapped him twice. Then threw the divorce papers in his face.

"Here's the agreement. Whoever doesn't sign is a coward.

"And no need to tattoo my name. I'm disgusted by the thought."