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.
ManyWriters · Fantasy
BEATLE JUICE! BEATLE JUICE! BEATLE JUICE! BEATLE JUICE! BEATLE JUICE! BEATLE JUICE! BEATLE JUICE! BEATLE JUICE! BEATLE JUICE! BEATLE JUICE! BEATLE JUICE! BEATLE JUICE! BEATLE JUICE! BEATLE JUICE! BEATLE JUICE! BEATLE JUICE! BEATLE JUICE! BEATLE JUICE! BEATLE JUICE! BEATLE JUICE! BEATLE JUICE!