I Cancelled Our Second Wedding

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During a department dinner, my wife, Delia, suddenly pulled a lighter from her pocket and handed it to the new intern, who had just fished out a cigarette.

I sat across from them, my fork frozen in midair.

We had been married for seven years. Because of her Aspergers, she had always operated strictly on instructions, like a machine running on a fixed code.

If I didn't ask, she didn't act.

Even the last time I sliced my finger open, blood pooling on the kitchen counter, I had to physically ask her to pass me a paper towel before she would move.

But tonight, no one had given her an instruction.

I slowly lowered my fork, watching the intern take the lighter from her hand. A single, quiet thought bloomed in my chest.

My marriage is over.

I pushed back my chair and stepped out of the private dining room. My chest felt tight, a dull, heavy ache settling behind my ribs.

Seven years. I had never seen Delia do something for someone else out of her own initiative.

Her condition made her a creature of absolute precision.

I inputted the command; she executed it. If I remained silent, she stayed still.

When the restaurant's AC was too cold and I muttered that I was freezing, she wouldn't understand the implication. But if I told her, Give me your jacket, she would strip it off immediately.

When my ulcer flared up and I groaned that my stomach hurt, she would look at me blankly. But if I said, Pour me a glass of warm water, shed be in the kitchen in a heartbeat.

Yet there she was, offering a lighter to an intern without a single word from him.

As I washed my hands and stepped out of the restroom, I nearly collided with someone at the corner of the hallway.

"Oh, sorry about that."

It was the intern.

Seeing me, he didn't look surprised at all. He smirked slightly, adjusting his collar.

"You're Elliot, right? Ms. Caldwell's husband?"

I didn't answer. I just quietly sized him up. His ID badge read Dustin Cross.

"Youre a lucky guy," Dustin said, his tone entirely too familiar. "Having a wife who's so... attentive."

Attentive.

The word didn't belong in the same universe as Delia.

Why would Dustin use it? The only logical explanation was that she behaved entirely differently around him. A version of her I had never seen.

A tenderness she had never offered me.

"Is there something you need?" I asked, finding my voice. He was still standing in my path, showing no intention of moving.

Dustin leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, right against my ear. "Actually, Elliot, Im more jealous of her skin. It's incredibly soft. Like silk."

My entire body went rigid. I stared at him, my heart hammering against my ribs.

He wore a smug, provocative grin, and seeing my reaction, he decided to press harder.

"Last Thursday, after the client dinner, Ms. Caldwell and I both drank too much. We got a room at the Ritz. She was the one who suggested it." He tilted his head, his eyes gleaming with malicious amusement. "It was just an accident, Elliot. You won't hold it against me, right?"

My mind went entirely blank, save for one phrase repeating like a broken record.

She suggested it.

But she never suggested anything. She never initiated.

I remembered our first Valentine's Day. She worked until past midnight, coming home with no flowers, no cake, no card. I had spent the evening watching couples hold hands on the streets, and by the time she walked through the door, I collapsed into a childish, desperate tantrum.

At midnight, I demanded, Go buy me a cake. I want it right now.

Delia didn't argue. She got back in her car and drove through a torrential downpour, scouring the city until she found a bakery that hadn't closed its doors yet.

When she returned, her hair was plastered to her forehead, the cuffs of her jeans soaked. But she didn't complain. She just handed me the box.

Then there was the time we planned to hike up Mt. Rainier over the weekend. I had packed the gear, eager for a quiet escape.

But that morning, she got a call from the office. An emergency.

Furious, I took my pack and left alone. Sitting at the trailhead, the resentment festered until I couldn't take it anymore. I called her.

"Delia, you need to get up here right now. Im waiting for you."

There was a three-second silence on the line. "Okay," she said.

An hour later, she appeared. She hadn't even changed out of her work clothes. Within twenty minutes of walking the gravel trail in her designer heels, her feet were bleeding, leaving her limping painfully.

Only later did I find out she had walked away from an eight-figure contract negotiation just because I told her to come.

It was those moments that had kept me in this marriage for seven years. I had never regretted marrying her.

I thought that was just her way of loving me.

She couldn't say the words, she couldn't take the first step, but if I asked, she would tear her own world apart to give me what I wanted.

The only time Delia had ever initiated anything was one quiet evening when she turned to me and said, "We should get married."

I had been stunned, blinking back tears of joy. "Why the sudden proposal?"

Her face was completely expressionless. "We are dating. Dating leads to marriage. It is the logical next step."

Even then, I was moved. I convinced myself she wasn't cold; she was just different. She loved me in her own silent, structured way.

But now, a simple plastic lighter had shattered every excuse I had ever built for her.

The motion-activated lights in the hallway clicked off, plunging us into shadow.

In the dark, I felt a hollow ache open up in my chest, as if someone had cleanly scooped out my heart, leaving a void where the cold draft could whistle through.

"What are you two doing?"

The lights flickered back on. Delia stood at the end of the hall.

She looked at me, then at Dustin. Her expression was as blank and unreadable as ever.

"The food is getting cold. Are we going back?"

I looked at her, and when I spoke, my voice sounded like dry gravel. "Delia, last Thursday. You didn't come home. Where were you, really?"

Her composure cracked, just for a fraction of a second.

Then, she pinched the bridge of her nose, a flicker of irritation passing over her features. "I told you, Elliot. I had too much to drink. I fell asleep on the couch in the executive lounge at the office."

"I already explained this. Do you not trust me?"

I stared into her eyes. There wasn't a trace of guilt, not a hint of a lie. But that was her conditionshe didn't register deceit the way normal people did.

And I didn't believe a single word.

A couple walked past us down the hall, casting curious glances.

I took a deep, shaky breath, blinking back the hot sting of tears, and forced my voice to remain steady. "Let's talk about this at home."

But deep down, I knew there was nothing left to say.

Outside the restaurant, a summer storm was turning the streets into rivers.

I got into the passenger seat first. Out of habit, I looked at the center console screen. The navigation system was still active, displaying our recent history.

Thursday, 11:42 PM. Destination: The Ritz-Carlton Downtown. Vehicle parked until Friday, 8:15 AM.

I stared at the screen, my fingers slowly tightening around the hem of my jacket until my knuckles turned white.

She had lied to me.

Through the rain-streaked window, I saw her walk over to Dustin, who was hovering near the restaurant's revolving doors. They spoke for a brief moment.

Then, holding her umbrella high, she guided him toward our car.

"The weather is terrible. Were dropping him off first," she said, pulling open the door. Her tone was completely matter-of-fact, leaving no room for argument.

I watched Dustin slide into the backseat. In the rearview mirror, his smirk was victoriousa blatant, mocking challenge.

Delia leaned over the console, reaching back to adjust the rear AC vents, pointing them away from Dustin so the cold air wouldn't hit him directly.

I sat in the passenger seat, rainwater dripping from the ends of my hair onto my collar. She hadn't cast a single glance my way. She hadn't asked if I was cold.

My mind drifted back to a storm just like this one the previous summer.

I had been stuck at the office until nine in the evening. When I finally walked out, the rain was a solid wall of gray.

I had no umbrella. I called her three times, but she didn't pick up.

I stood under the awning for forty minutes while the rideshare apps showed endless waiting times. Eventually, I gave up and ran to the subway station, getting thoroughly soaked.

When I finally pushed open our apartment door, dripping wet and shivering, she was sitting on the couch with her laptop. She looked up once, her eyes sliding over my drenched clothes without a hint of concern, before returning to her work emails.

The next day, my temperature spiked to 104. I lay in bed, shaking so hard my teeth chattered.

She got dressed, grabbed her bag, and left for work right on schedule. She didnt offer to drive me to the clinic. She didn't even leave a glass of water on the nightstand.

The car's AC was blowing cold air directly onto my forehead, starting a dull throb.

I looked in the side mirror. Dustins hair was barely damp. In the short walk from the restaurant lobby to the car, Delia had made sure the umbrella covered him completely.

I wondered how she had even remembered to bring an umbrella. She never checked the weather forecast; usually, I was the one slipping a compact umbrella into her bag before she left for work.

Finally, the car pulled up to Dustin's apartment building.

Before getting out, he leaned forward with a smooth smile. "Thanks for the ride, Ms. Caldwell. Goodnight, Elliot."

That smile belonged to a winner.

The heavy door clicked shut, and the sound of the rain outside seemed to double in volume.

Under the cover of the downpour, my voice cracked. "Delia, let's get a divorce."

Delias brows knit together. She didn't answer immediately.

As the silence stretched, thick and suffocating in the cabin, I spoke again.

"I checked the navigation logs. Thursday night. You were at the Ritz with him, wasn't you?"

She finally turned her head to look at me, a rare flash of panic and confusion crossing her face. Face-to-face with undeniable proof, she had no logical defense left.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I lied to you because I didn't want you to be angry."

"I promise you, it was only that one time. It was an accident. I was drunk."

She paused, her hands tightening on the steering wheel. "Our vow renewal is in two days. Let's just put this behind us. Don't let it ruin our ceremony, okay?"

I closed my eyes and leaned my head back against the headrest.

I remembered how she had brought up the idea of a vow renewal a few months ago.

Because of her condition and our rushed marriage, we had only registered the paperwork at City Hall seven years ago without a proper wedding.

With our seventh anniversary approaching, she had told me she wanted to do this to make up for what we missed.

At the time, I had been incredibly touched. I thought she was finally understanding my emotional needs, trying to heal the quiet ache of our simple, uncelebrated beginning.

Now, the truth tasted like ash.

It wasn't love or a sudden emotional awakening. It was guilt.

She was tangled up with her intern at the office, doing things behind my back, and this ceremony was her logical attempt to balance the ledger.

And her promise that it would never happen again? I couldn't bring myself to believe it.

The moment she chose to lie, the fragile trust I had spent seven years building evaporated completely.

The car lurched forward again. I opened my eyes to stare out at the rain-soaked, pitch-black night.

The warning signs had been there all along.

Three months ago, I had stepped into the shower only to realize Id forgotten a towel.

Leaving the door cracked, I called out to her twice, asking her to bring me one.

She never came. I had to shiver, dripping wet, as I walked out into the cold bedroom to fetch it myself.

As I passed the study, I heard her on the phone with Dustin, patiently explaining how to handle a client deck.

I hadn't thought much of it then, assuming she was just mentoring a new hire.

But looking back, Delia never called her subordinates after hours. And that was the very first time she had simply ignored a direct request from me.

And a week ago, the night she didn't come home, she had gone to a client dinner and taken only Dustin.

Delia hated drinking. If she had alcohol in her system that night, she had undoubtedly been matching glasses to shield him.

When the engine finally cut out in our building's parking garage, the silence was absolute. I snapped out of my thoughts, realizing we were home.

I walked straight to the bedroom. Delia went to her study. As always, there were no words between us.

I sat down at my desk, opened my laptop, and stared at a blank document.

My fingers hovered over the keys for a long moment. Then, I began to type:

MARITAL DISSOLUTION AGREEMENT

I printed it out, signed my name in clear, steady ink, and placed the pages inside the nightstand drawer.

When I finished, I looked at the desk calendar.

The date of our vow renewal, just two days away, was circled in thick red ink. I had looked forward to it for months.

Now, I took a black pen and drew a heavy line straight through it.

There would be no ceremony.

I had already booked a one-way ticket to Switzerland for tomorrow evening.

Once I left, I was never coming back.

The next morning, the sharp buzz of the doorbell woke me.

I opened the door to find Dustin standing in the hallway. Behind him, two delivery couriers in uniforms were holding stacks of luxury shopping bags.

"Morning, Elliot. Ms. Caldwell asked me to drop these off."

"She said you seemed upset last night. She hoped these might cheer you up."

It was Delia's clumsy attempt at an apology.

If this had happened a year ago, I would have been thrilled to see her trying to make amends.

But as I looked at the designer logos, I noticed two of the brands only made menswear. She hadn't even bothered to curate them. She had probably just instructed her assistant to purchase a standard luxury package to placate me.

Even when trying to save our marriage, she couldn't be burdened to care.

"Put them in the utility closet," I said flatly.

The delivery men deposited the bags and left, but Dustin remained in the doorway.

He leaned against the frame, crossing his arms as he ran an arrogant gaze over me.

"You know, Elliot, womenno matter their agealways prefer someone younger, someone with a bit of life in them."

"Youre losing your edge. You shouldn't be surprised that she's looking elsewhere."

"Are you finished?" I asked, keeping my voice completely devoid of emotion. "If you are, get out."

I had no desire to trade barbs with him. My marriage was already over. If he wanted to climb his way into her bed permanently, that was his business now.

Dustin's smirk faltered, clearly caught off guard by my lack of anger.

He scoffed, his tone turning sharp. "Ms. Caldwell wants me to drive you to the tailor for your final fitting. Youre a lucky man, Elliot. After all these years, shes still willing to give you your little dream wedding."

I didn't argue. I grabbed my keys and walked past him.

I was leaving tonight, and I didn't want to cause any scene that might complicate my departure.

He drove, and I sat in the passenger seat, staring out at the passing streets.

We were only one intersection away from the bridal boutique.

Suddenly, there was a violent shudder. The world spun sideways. My body was thrown violently against the passenger door, the seatbelt cutting deep into my chest with a sickening jolt.

The sound of shattering glass filled the air. Then, a warm, thick trickle of blood began to slide down my forehead.

I forced my eyes open through the haze. The white fabric of the airbag was deflated before me. Dustin was slumped over the steering wheel, cradling his arm, his face stark white.

In the distance, the wail of sirens began to rise.

Within minutes, Delia's sleek black sedan pulled up to the curb.

She threw her door open and ran toward the wreckage, her face pale with terror.

But as she reached the passenger side, she didn't stop.

She ran right past my window, rounded the hood, and yanked open the drivers side door, desperately pulling Dustin out into the open air.

My hand, which had been weakly reaching out to tap on the cracked glass, froze in midair. Slowly, I let it drop back to my lap.

My vision began to blur. I couldn't tell if it was the blood in my eyes or the tears.

The world went dark, and I let myself slide into the quiet.

When I woke, the ceiling was a sterile, glaring white, and the sharp scent of antiseptic filled my nose.

"Just a mild concussion. You need some rest, but you're going to be fine," a doctor's voice said from nearby.

I turned my head slightly. Delia was sitting in the chair beside my bed. There was a faint smear of dried blood on her white silk dress.

"Since there are no major injuries," she said, her voice steady and logical, "the ceremony tomorrow will proceed as planned."

She opened her mouth as if to say more, but her phone suddenly buzzed on the nightstand.

I caught the name on the screen. It was Dustin.

She answered, listened for a second, and then looked at me. "I need to step out for a moment."

The second the heavy door clicked shut behind her, I threw back the thin hospital blanket.

I reached down and pulled the IV needle from the back of my hand. A small bead of dark blood welled up; I pressed a stray tissue against it until it stopped.

I grabbed my jacket from the small closet. My phone, ID, and wallet were all in the pockets.

It was everything I needed.

I walked out of the hospital, hailed a cab to the airport, and finally turned my phone back on to send one last message to Delia:

From now on, you don't have to follow my instructions anymore. Follow Dustin's.

The signed divorce papers are in the nightstand drawer. Please sign them.

I tapped send, shut the phone off, slid the SIM card out, and snapped it in half.

As the cab merged onto the highway, I tossed the broken pieces of plastic out the window.

Goodbye, Delia. I hope we never meet again.