I Hardly Know Him

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A year into my marriage, I was dragged into an alley, stripped of my jacket, and pinned to a wall. A woman live-streamed my humiliation, slapping me while screaming, You homewrecking whore!

I'm married! You have the wrong person! I yelled, but she shoved a marriage certificate in my face. The photo showed her with my husband, Mark, dated three years prior.

My life imploded. My TV station promotion was revoked, and I was blacklisted from the industry. In total despair, I climbed onto our penthouse balcony, ready to jump.

Just as I prepared to leap, I heard voices inside. Gina, my attacker, laughed. "Mark, youre wicked. Using a fake certificate to destroy her just to make me laugh after only three months."

Marks voice was indulgent. "Anything to make you happy, babe. Play with her however you want."

I stared at the glass door, my heart shattering. The nightmare I had endured for a month was nothing but a cruel game for his amusement.

The wind on the balcony was freezing, yet their laughter carried perfectly to my ears.

I closed my eyes, recalling the living hell of the past month.

After being publicly branded as a mistress, I had posted my actual chat logs to prove I had been deceived. But every attempt at clarification only invited more vicious harassment.

My colleagues shunned me, and strangers on the street spat in my direction.

"Look at how she dresses. You can tell she is a home-wrecker."

"All those designer bags are probably paid for in bed."

I had tried to tune out the noise and bury myself in my work. But during a live broadcast, a guest unexpectedly asked me why I chose to destroy another woman's family.

I finally cracked, sobbing hysterically into the microphone. "I am not a mistress! I had no idea he was married!"

Nobody believed me.

The footage of my breakdown was edited, memed, and shared across the internet, triggering a fresh wave of harassment. I lost my job, and my career was effectively dead.

Fear and nightmares became my nightly companions. I consumed sleeping pills by the handful, and my hair fell out in clumps.

When Mark finally returned from his trip abroad with Gina, I confronted him, only for him to shrug with complete indifference.

"You only asked if I had a girlfriend when I was studying in Europe, Alice. You never asked if I had a wife. How is that a lie?"

The final thread of my sanity snapped.

Death felt like the only escape.

But standing on the balcony, learning the truth, I froze.

If all of it was a lie, what was the point of the agony I had endured?

Rage, hot and violent, surged to my head. I threw the balcony door open.

Marks smirk froze. My words cut through the room like a blade.

"Why would you do this to me?"

He frowned, gesturing for Gina to wait outside. Then, he sat on the sofa and lit a cigarette.

I was highly allergic to tobacco, coughing instantly as the smoke hit my lungs. Normally, he would never smoke near me, but today, he was entirely unmoved by my distress.

Mark spoke calmly, taking a slow drag. "Since you heard us, I will be direct. Alice, I know you love me, but I am bored."

"I am bored of your unchanging hairstyle, bored of always having to soothe your insecurities, and especially bored of your predictable routine in bed. I need excitement, and Gina gives me what you can't."

I took a ragged breath, fighting the nausea rising in my throat. "Mark, how can you do this? Does my mothers memory mean nothing to you?"

At the mention of my mother, his expression stiffened slightly. "It has been years, and you still use her death to guilt-trip me. I know she saved my life, but was marrying you not enough of a repayment?"

We had been neighbors growing up. When a fire broke out at the Fairfax estate, his parents were away, and even their nanny had fled, leaving Mark trapped inside.

My mother was the only one who ran into the flames to pull him out. She died shortly after from severe smoke inhalation.

Her sacrifice had always been a sacred boundary between us.

Hearing him dismiss it so casually, combined with weeks of humiliation, pushed me over the edge. I lunged forward and slapped him across the face.

"I regret that she ever saved an ungrateful beast like you!"

The slap left both of us stunned.

Then, Mark let out a low chuckle. "That is the first time I've ever seen you look this angry."

He leaned in close, his voice dropping to a whisper. "This look actually suits you. It is quite stimulating."

"Since Gina is outside, why don't we try the bathroom?"

A wave of intense revulsion washed over me. I stared at him, unable to recognize the boy I had loved since childhood.

I grabbed a heavy crystal vase from the table and hurled it at his feet, screaming at him to get out.

After he left, I collapsed onto the floor, gasping for air. Exhaustion weighed heavily on my limbs, and I dragged myself toward the bedroom, needing to sleep.

But when I pushed the door open, my breath hitched.

Our wedding portrait had been ripped from the wall and thrown onto the floor. My face had been defaced with black marker, with the word "WHORE" scribbled across my forehead. Next to the frame lay two dusty handprints, and as I stepped backward, my bare foot brushed against something slick.

A discarded condom wrapper.

I gagged, but my stomach was entirely empty.

Pain consumed me, but my eyes remained completely dry. The tears refused to come.

Then, my phone buzzed.

Mark had posted a new update on his social media: "Returning to my family. Looking forward to spending the rest of my life with my beautiful wife."

The attached photo showed him and Gina, their silhouettes framed by a golden sunset.

In that instant, my world shattered, and the tears finally spilled over.

But beneath the grief, a cold, sharp resolve began to take root.

Over the next few days, I quietly compiled evidence of his infidelity, determined to dismantle his reputation.

But the deeper I dug, the colder my heart became.

Three months ago, on my birthday, I had sat alone in our dark apartment waiting for him until dawn. That entire night, he had been setting off fireworks on a private beach with Gina.

Two months ago, I had sat alone in a hospital corridor, holding a positive pregnancy test and trying desperately to reach him. He had ignored my calls because he was busy buying heating pads and preparing tea for Ginas menstrual cramps.

One month ago, when the fake mistress scandal broke and the stress caused me to miscarry in a cold hospital room, he was in Iceland, watching the northern lights with Gina.

I ran to the bathroom, vomiting until my throat tasted like copper. Only when my stomach was completely empty did the numbness in my chest offer a brief reprieve.

The following morning, I sent the entire folder of evidence to a prominent investigative journalist.

Back at the apartment, I forced myself to sit at the desk and draft a divorce agreement.

My eyes grew misty as I typed. We had been childhood sweethearts, quietly harboring feelings for each other for years. We had promised that once he graduated from his university in Europe, we would finally build a life together.

In the beginning, he would wait outside my office for hours, regardless of how late my shift ended. When I fell ill, he postponed a multi-million-dollar merger just to spend six hours simmering fish soup to bring to my bedside. On the night of my promotion, he had purchased a flawless diamond at an auction and knelt before me.

I had insisted on keeping our marriage private because I did not want people accusing me of marrying for money.

I never expected that my desire for privacy would provide the perfect cover for his betrayal.

I eventually fell asleep at the desk, exhausted.

By the time I woke up, the internet had exploded. But when I opened the trending news, my vision blurred.

The evidence I had sent had been entirely manipulated. Instead of exposing his affair, the headlines presented a forged confession, claiming I was apologizing for being a mistress.

They had used advanced voice-cloning technology to replicate my voice, and an AI generator to copy my handwriting.

The digital mob turned on me with renewed ferocity. My photos were doctored with offensive captions and circulated across every platform. My personal accounts were deactivated, and my phone number was leaked online.

Vicious messages and threatening calls flooded my inbox. Strangers demanded to know my nightly rates.

I let out a hollow laugh.

This was Mark's retaliation.

In the past, whenever I faced minor criticism online, he would use his family's PR firm to scrub the internet clean within minutes. Now, he had used those same resources to build my personal purgatory.

The front door clicked open, and Mark walked in.

Rage eclipsed my judgment. I grabbed a glass mug and hurled it at his head. "Mark! I am not a mistress! She is! Sign the papers!"

He ducked, the glass shattering against the wall. Before I could move, his hand clamped around my throat, pinning me against the wall.

Oxygen left my lungs, and my eyes watered from the pain, but his grip did not loosen. Just before I lost consciousness, he let go, leaving me to slide down the drywall, gasping.

"Have you calmed down?" Mark asked, straightening his cuffs. "If you pull another stunt like that, the consequences will be far worse."

"Alice, a little jealousy is fine, but this behavior is getting tedious. Stop trying to use these dramatic schemes to win back my attention."

"You love me too much to actually leave, and I need a wife who understands the family dynamics. This arrangement suits both of us perfectly."

He glanced at the divorce papers on the desk and let out a dry chuckle. "Do you honestly think you can survive a divorce? You have no career left. Who will support you if you leave me?"

"Behave yourself, and once I've had my fun, I will clear your name."

I coughed violently, my throat burning. He ignored my pain entirely.

"Gina has been crying for days because of the stress. I am throwing a grand wedding ceremony to reassure her, and she expects you to apologize to her in person before she will forgive you."

He turned toward the door. "Whether you show up is up to you. But if Gina remains unhappy, I will make sure your life becomes even more uncomfortable."

After the door clicked shut, my chest heaved with a mixture of laughter and tears.

That evening, a new headline dominated the social media channels: "The Prodigal Son Returns! Fairfax Heir Spends Millions on a Lavish Wedding to Honor His Wife!"

The comments section was filled with venom directed at me, with users criticizing my upbringing and mocking my mother's passing.

I sat on the kitchen floor, clutching the trash can, feeling an absolute detachment take over. The residual warmth I held for the boy who had once knelt in the rain to slide a ring onto my finger vanished completely.

My phone vibrated, displaying an unknown number: "I received the files you sent. When are you free to discuss this?"

The wedding of the century became the sole topic of conversation online.

The public narrative was set: Mark Fairfax was a reformed romantic protecting his fragile wife, while Alice was a desperate intruder who had tried to steal him away.

When Mark returned to the apartment, he tossed an invitation onto the table. "The ceremony is scheduled for the day after tomorrow. Do not be late."

The day after tomorrow.

The anniversary of my mother's death.

I stood up, my chair scraping harshly against the hardwood floor. "I cannot make it. I am visiting my mother's grave."

"And when are you going to sign the divorce papers?"

He ignored the question entirely, letting out a soft grunt. "Your mother has been gone for years. There is no point in visiting a headstone. Gina's parents will be there, so you can pay your respects to them instead."

A dull ache flared in my chest.

Seeing my defiance, he pulled a velvet box from his pocket and opened it, revealing my mother's delicate gold necklace.

"This belonged to her, correct? If you choose to skip the ceremony and upset Gina, I cannot guarantee what will happen to this."

My jaw clenched so hard it ached. Before my anger could boil over, my phone vibrated in my pocket. I forced myself to take a slow, deep breath, checked the message, and looked at him calmly.

"Mark, do you truly want me to offer my blessings to Gina in front of the press?"

He smiled. "Absolutely."

On the day of the wedding, the venue was swarming with reporters.

In the dressing room, Gina stood before the vanity in a custom satin gown. Her lapel bore a white rose labeled "Bride," while Mark wore one labeled "Groom."

On the table lay a withered, black rose labeled "Mistress."

Gina let out a soft whine, and Mark immediately grabbed the black rose, pinning it roughly to my blouse. The sharp pin scraped against my collarbone, drawing a thin line of blood, but he did not care.

"Do you truly want to go through with this?" I asked, looking into his eyes.

He frowned. "It is just a flower, Alice. Don't be dramatic."

Gina turned around, her expression triumphant. "During the ceremony, you will read the apology slides I prepared, word for word. Then, you will kneel and beg for my forgiveness."

"You will kowtow nine hundred and ninety-nine times before you are allowed to stand. Do you understand?"

I remained silent, staring back at her.

Annoyed by my silence, Mark gripped my jaw tightly. "Do not embarrass us today."

I shoved his hand away, maintaining my cold stare.

Before he could speak, the double doors opened, and a crowd of reporters and high-society guests entered the suite. They immediately crowded around Gina and Mark, offering praise, before their eyes landed on my lapel.

The whispers began instantly.

"How pathetic. Some women truly have no dignity."

"She actually had the audacity to show up. If I were Gina, I would have had security throw her out."

I reached up, ripped the black rose from my chest, and threw it to the floor. "I am not the mistress. Gina is."

Nobody believed me. The sneers only intensified.

Mark stepped closer, grabbing my wrist under the cover of his sleeve and squeezing until my bones ached, signaling me to be quiet.

Gina offered a fragile, pitying smile to the cameras. "Please, do not be too harsh on Alice. She was simply blinded by her affection for Mark. She is here today to make things right."

The music began, and they walked out to the altar hand-in-hand.

After the vows were spoken and the rings exchanged, I was escorted onto the stage under the harsh glow of the spotlights.

But as the projector screen behind us lit up, Marks face drained of color, turning a sickly, translucent white.