Dear Husband, I Don’t Love You Anymore! Novel – “Rufus, when are you going to divorce her? You promised me.” “Soon, baby. She’s still grieving our dead daughter.” That’s how I found out. My husband. The man everyone fears. The mafia boss who once swore he’d give me his life, was doing something unearthy with his best friend’s sister. The bed. The couch. Even next to my anniversary gifts.
And when I confronted him? He smiled at me like nothing was wrong. Slipped a diamond bracelet on my wrist and said, “Happy anniversary, sweetheart.” To the world, Rufus is the perfect husband but to me? To me, he’s a liar. So I made a choice… Thirteen days. That’s all I need. My immigration papers will be ready. And I’ll be gone. “Annette, I’ll only ever love you.” “If I betray you, may lightning strike me dead.” Funny. He said that while still reeking of her perfume. Six months later, he found me.
His face twisted with fury. “Annette! You’re my wife! How could you do it with someone else?” I only smiled, sweet and sharp. “I was never yours. You just rented my soul until you broke it.” — My husband slept with his best friend’s sister. Not once, not twice but multiple times and he even brought her into our home. The bed, the couch, the kitchen counter. He told me he only loved me, yet his body told a different story. I didn’t even have to imagine it. I heard her voice with my own ears. “Rufus, when are you going to divorce her? You promised me.” “Soon, baby.
Not now. She’s still grieving to our dead daughter.” “Poor thing. Having a mother like her… no wonder. But don’t worry, I’ll give you a child soon. I’ll get pregnant.” “I’m counting on it.” “But tell me the truth. Do you really love her, your wife Annette?” “Yes. I love her.” My husband, the man everyone in this city whispered about… the cold, dangerous boss of the Anderson family… still had the audacity to speak about love while touching another woman. Thirteen days. That’s all I needed. My immigration papers would be ready by then.
So I went to the consulate and filed my application. “Hello, I’m here to apply for immigration,” I said at the counter, handing over my paperwork. The clerk glanced at me, stamped everything quickly, and slid a receipt across. “Your application will be processed in thirteen days, ma’am. Please wait patiently.” I nodded and walked out. Behind me, I caught the sound of murmuring.