Seven Years of Bitter Juice
With a 140 IQ and exceptional spatial reasoning, I was handpicked by Declan Sterling's father, Arthur, to enter a contractual marriage. My sole purpose: to become Declan's wife in name only and produce an heir.
In seven years of marriage, I never once became pregnant.
Declan, on the other hand, was the complete opposite. Over those seven years, his name was constantly plastered across the tabloids, each new conquest a model or a socialite.
Every day, I stared at the mountain of clarification statements and hush money invoices delivered by his public relations team.
I couldn't take it anymore. I finally confronted Declan.
"Let's get a divorce."
He looked at me coolly. "What game are you playing now?"
Staring at his impassive face, I didn't dissolve into the hysterical tears I once had. I just shook my head.
"I'm not playing any games."
After all, for the past seven years, to be worthy of the contract fee Arthur had paid, I had long since swallowed my pride, grinding it to dust.
I had once tearfully clutched his sleeve, pleading with him to stop seeing other women, pleading for a single scrap of genuine affection.
But each time, Declan would just look down on me, coldly spitting out a few words:
"What right do you have?"
Then, he would turn and leave without a backward glance.
That alone should have been enough to make me surrender.