The woman in the photo? Total stranger. Young, gorgeous, rocking a plain dress like she didn’t need to try.
[Dear Rainee, I’m about to get married, but I can’t sleep through the night. You’re not the bride. To me, this marriage is a tragedy.]
[Rainee, I kept my promise to you. I raised our child. He’s successful now, living a happy life. And I’m coming to find you.
[Rainee, wait for me.]
The handwriting hit me like a slap—Sebastian’s. No mistaking it after thirty years. His bold, sweeping letters practically dripped with emotion.
What a joke.
The Rainee he loved? Not me. Never was.
And the miserable wife in his little sob story?
Yeah, that was me.
I glanced at him — lying there on the bed, cheeks flushed, lips curved in this faint, satisfied smile. Like a man who’d made peace with dying.
Sebastian Dwight.
We’d been married thirty years. And somehow, I never really knew him.
Three decades of running his house, raising his kid, pouring every ounce of myself into a life that, apparently, wasn’t even mine. And what did I get? A divorce agreement. A cold, clean dismissal.
He was my husband. He’d slipped that ring on my finger.
But right now? I felt like the other woman. The side piece he never meant to keep.
He was ready to die without a shred of regret. Ready to leave me behind like old luggage.
And me?
I was stuck with the ugly truth — that after all these years, I’d lived my life as a punchline. Lied to. Played.
We shared a roof, a bed, a life.
I should’ve seen it.
He never loved me.
Not long after we got married, Sebastian moved into a separate room. Said his job was exhausting, that he needed proper rest.
