My Husband Is Just A Case Study

The moment Dean Harrison, for the thousandth time, tacitly allowed someone to refer to my sister-in-law as “Mrs. Harrison” during a professional event, was the moment I stopped screaming inside.

I didn’t lose it. I didn’t cause a scene.

I even raised my glass, a graceful arc of silence and surrender, and echoed the compliments they were lavishing on the two of them.

“They really are, aren’t they? A perfect match.”

Dean’s head snapped up. The shock in his eyes was naked, a raw, uncontrolled thing.

“What did you just call her?”

I met his gaze, my smile shallow and deliberate.

“Mrs. Harrison, of course.”

1

Dean’s astonishment lasted only a second. Just as quickly, the mask of indifference settled back over his features.

“Eliza, do you have to be like this?”

His brow furrowed, a flicker of impatience crossing his face. “We’re flying to New York to meet a major client for New Year’s. Sloane is coming with me.”

“You stay home, and don’t even think about interfering. We are simply…”

He paused, waiting for the predictable explosion. The breakdown he was so used to.

I simply nodded.

“I know. You two are inseparable, all for the sake of the business.”

He squinted, searching my unnervingly calm face for a crack, a sign of the hysteria he expected.

“She’s also the face of the new brand launch,” he prodded. “You know how crucial this is…”

I smiled again, a serene expression of total understanding. “I do know. Helping Sloane build her career is part of Graham’s last request, isn’t it?”

“And as his brother, you absolutely should see it through.”

He froze again. He leaned in, his mouth forming an incomplete thought. “Eliza, you…”

I shook my head, my composure absolute.

“Relax.”

“I won’t interrupt your work anymore.”

2

Whatever Dean had been about to say was cut short by Sloane Merritt’s soft, sweetly demanding voice.

“Dean, darling, come on! It’s time to cut the cake!”

Sloane was on the podium, playing the part of the triumphant hostess. She waved him over with a bold, proprietary gesture. Under the spotlights, her skin was luminous, a pampered, perfectly cultivated rose.

The massive screen behind her then flashed an intimate, laughing photo of the two of them. The room erupted in cheers.

“They’re stunning!”

“The boss’s wife is absolutely killing it!”

This company gala felt less like an annual corporate celebration and more like a wedding reception. Few people, given the speed of the company’s growth, even knew I was the actual wife, the one whose initial investment had made all this possible.

A few older employees shot me pitying glances.

Dean didn’t move. He only raised a lazy eyebrow at me.

He was waiting.

Waiting for me to lose control, to shriek, to smash that ridiculously oversized cake into Sloane’s self-satisfied face, just like the old days.

But I simply reached into my clutch and pulled out the small, gold-wrapped box I’d carried around for months.

I extended it toward him.

“A belated IPO gift. Congratulations, CEO Harrison.”

He was visibly startled, then his usual, languid smirk returned.

“The company went public ages ago, and you’re just now thinking about it?”

He took the box, his fingers brushing my skin. “Took you long enough to finally act your age.”

Tucked beneath the flashy gold wrapping was a simple, bound divorce agreement.

Thinking back, we started with a gift, and now we would end with one. It felt poetically complete.

“Eliza,” his voice suddenly softened, the warm light above us creating a gentle, false halo around him.

“Come up here with me.”

Was he asking for peace?

No. It was a calculated handout. A public crumb to keep me tethered to him, right in front of all these witnesses.

I shook my head.

“No, thank you.”

The last time I’d dared to stand beside him, an employee who didn’t recognize me had unceremoniously elbowed me aside.

“That’s Sloane Merritt’s spot, the CFO’s! Who do you think you are, trying to take center stage?”

Dean had acted as though he hadn’t heard a thing, coldly letting me suffer the humiliation before intimately pulling Sloane to his side.

The memory was a sharp, bitter draft that I instantly shut down.

His eyes instantly hardened. He closed the gap between us, his voice dropping to a low, rough whisper meant only for me.

“Trying to play the gracious wife? What’s the new scheme, Eliza?”

His breath feathered my forehead. “Half a month ago, you were on your knees begging me not to leave. Who are you putting on this performance for?”

I lifted my eyes and looked at him, clearly and calmly.

“It’s not an act,” I said.

My inner tsunami has finally gone quiet. All the pain, the hysteria, the desperate refusal to let go—it had all evaporated.

I had no reason left to stay.

3

He tightened his jaw and turned away, stepping onto the stage where the spotlight instantly claimed him.

That tall, familiar silhouette suddenly overlapped with a memory from years ago.

I almost forgot that he was once the man who swore to bring the entire world to my feet.

One evening, unannounced, the doorbell rang.

I opened the door to see a delicate, slight figure who, with a small, manufactured gasp, seemed to stumble right into Dean’s arms just as he was leaving.

He instinctively stabilized her.

I still remember her tear-stained face and the ridiculous, unbelievable words she spoke.

“Dean… Graham is gone…”

“He never got to finish the things he promised…”

“He said you would finish them for him. Is that true?”

In her hand, she clutched Graham’s long, detailed “last requests.”

Kissing by the Italian coast, a wedding on a cliffside…

She was asking my husband to carry out the romantic courtship promised by his dead brother.

And that absurd plea was met by Dean’s silence.

A silence as cold as ice, creeping inch by inch into my chest.

“You’re not… seriously going to date his fiancée for him, are you?” I asked, my voice thin and shaking.

He instantly met my eyes, the coldness vanishing from his face as he pulled me into an embrace.

“What are you talking about?”

“If I’m busy chasing Graham’s girl, who’s going to take care of my wife?”

My heart, which had been suspended in mid-air, settled instantly.

But then…

On our wedding anniversary, he flew to the Himalayas with Sloane for an “inspirational trek.”

On New Year’s Eve, he went scuba diving with her off the coast of Bali.

I realized, too late, that our plain silver wedding band had been quietly replaced on his finger by a custom-cut, million-dollar diamond—the exact same design Sloane wore.

When I confronted him in a rage, his response was dismissive. “The dead come first.”

“It’s just a list, Eliza. Graham owed her this, and I have to make it right.”

He began to use work as a convenient excuse to keep her close. Vice President title, seven-figure salary, always together.

It was then I understood. There was no last request. It was a man’s premeditated excuse for betrayal, and a woman’s calculated, entitled theft.

And I had become the most pathetic joke in the entire game.

4

The arguments, the accusations, the screaming.

I tore through the restraint and composure I’d built over twenty years.

Late one night, I yelled into the phone, “The list says you have to get married! Are you going to marry her next?!”

He wouldn’t answer.

He just left me with longer silences and later nights.

My final public breakdown happened at his Series C funding celebration.

Champagne flutes reflected dazzling light.

Sloane was on his arm, accepting compliments about the beautiful, successful couple they made.

I stared at them and whispered. “Mistress.”

My voice wasn’t loud, but the entire room instantly went dead quiet.

Dean’s eyes swung toward me, the coldness in them freezing the blood in my veins.

A week later, I received my dismissal letter from the university and a permanent ban notification from my professional platform account.

Ten years of professional dedication and reputation, gone overnight.

I stormed into his office like a maniac, slamming the papers onto his desk.

“Clear this up! Dean, you need to tell them the truth—”

He leaned back slowly in his chair, his eyes scanning my tear-streaked face.

He looked at me the way one might appraise a failed, defective product.

“Look at you,” he sneered. “You look like a lunatic.”

“You’re a psychologist, aren’t you? The expert on the human mind?”

He leaned forward, his voice a slow, cutting drawl. “With this behavior, how can you possibly counsel anyone else?”

“I told you, Sloane is here for work. Nothing more.”

He chuckled, picking up the termination letter and tossing it lightly at my feet.

“You insisted on making a spectacle. Eliza, you brought this misery on yourself.”

5

Clinical therapist. Psychology scholar.

The specialized knowledge I’d been so proud of, the success stories I’d written—they offered no protection, no extra calmness or courage in the face of my own betrayal.

I gave a self-mocking laugh.

Watching them on stage, side-by-side, I calmly turned and walked out of the hotel.

My phone screen glowed. A new email notification:

[Invitation for Visiting Scholar, University of Pennsylvania, Psychology Department.]

Attached was a one-way ticket order to Philadelphia, departing the day after tomorrow.

Today was my birthday.

Twenty-eight years old.

I deleted every notification reminder except for one note in my memo app.

Happy Birthday, Eliza.

My wish for the coming year is to never see Dean Harrison again.

6

That night, the internet exploded.

The tag #HarrisonPowerCouple was trending, quickly followed by #SongGalaRomance.

The photos showed him leaning down to listen to Sloane, a softness in his profile that I hadn’t seen in years.

[OMG, look at the way CEO Harrison looks at Sloane—pure adoration!]

[The “Don’t approach me” look and the “Puppy-dog eyes” expression on the same face! I’m dead.]

[Who doesn’t know that Dean Harrison donated millions just to give Sloane Merritt a massive platform and status? Seriously spoiled wife!]

[They are the definition of an epic love story!!!]

Yes.

For years, Dean had meticulously cultivated Sloane’s image as the “Boss Babe” entrepreneur. The character didn’t quite stick, but the manufactured romance between the two of them had the internet completely hooked.

[Wait, are they married?]

[I thought Dean Harrison was married? His wife doesn’t look like that?]

I silently closed the trending app.

I scrolled past it, my internal landscape utterly flat.

A moment later, my best friend, Clara, called, her voice high and distorted. “Liz! Did you see the news? Dean Harrison actually—”

“I saw it,” I cut her off, my voice even.

“That’s it? That’s your reaction?!” She sounded closer to tears than I was.

“Your husband is openly flaunting his affair! Are you just going to sit there?!”

A key turned in the lock of the front door.

Dean was home, carrying the cold, clean scent of the night air.

A satisfied smirk touched his lips. He’d clearly heard our conversation.

“You saw it?”

He tugged at his tie, walking toward me, his eyes mocking. “Weren’t you playing the role of the incredibly detached wife? Are you going to cry now? Or maybe start throwing things?”

He leaned in, his breath hot. “Eliza, you’re trying too hard. It’s a bad performance.”

I looked straight into his eyes. “Do you need me to cry? I can put on a show right now if it would satisfy you.” My tone was almost polite.

He visibly stiffened.

“If you’re truly upset,” he straightened up, returning to his familiar tone of high-handed condescension. “I can have the story pulled off the feeds.”

“No need,” I said, picking up my water glass. “I don’t mind.”

His eyes darkened, finally pricked by my lack of reaction.

He suddenly gripped my wrist, his strength jarring, his voice low and hoarse. “What about your consulting account? You got fired from the college; that was your last tether to your career, wasn’t it? Aren’t you afraid that this drama will wreck it completely?”

The water in the glass sloshed.

That account. It had been my life’s work.

But the moment he chose to expose my private breakdown to the world, the moment he took the college job away, that platform was dead. His offer now was meaningless.

I offered a kind, gentle suggestion. “I’m sure it was Graham’s wish that Sloane be welcomed into the Harrison family in a very public way, too, wasn’t it?”

“You making her Mrs. Harrison for him would be the ultimate fulfillment of that legacy.”

7

“Eliza!”

He barked my name, his jaw tight. “You think if you pretend not to care, I won’t know you’re just trying to make me jealous?”

“Jealous?”

I looked at the face that used to make my heart beat faster, and felt only utter clarity.

“I’m not trying to make you jealous.”

I heard myself speak, the sound light, almost cheerful. “I think I just don’t love you anymore.”

He seemed nailed to the floor. His pupils slightly dilated.

I didn’t love him.

That’s why he could fly Sloane to private islands, scuba dive, bungee jump, and take photos at the Lover’s Bridge. I no longer had to scream.

That’s why he could come home after half a month, with faint red marks on his neck, and I would simply hand him a glass of water and ask, “Which item on Graham’s list was that one?”

Even when Clara angrily texted me that he’d bought Sloane a ridiculously expensive necklace at a charity auction, I could agree calmly.

“Of course. It’s the least he can do for the woman his brother cared for so much.”

He stared at me as if I were a stranger.

His eyes held confusion, disbelief, and a flicker of panicked loss of control.

“Eliza,” his throat bobbed, his voice dry. “Why are you… not mad anymore?”

He didn’t know that I had already fought and won the last psychological battle against myself.

Desensitization complete.

I was ready to walk away.

8

My wishes rarely came true.

Two days later, I ran into Dean and Sloane at the airport.

“Eliza? You actually followed us?”

Her eyes were smug, and she mouthed a silent message to Dean. Told you so.

Dean’s expression was remote, but the moment he saw me, a knowing, triumphant smile touched his lips.

“I thought you said you wouldn’t interrupt us?”

I nodded. “That’s right. I won’t.”

I tried to slip past them, giving them a wide berth.

Dean’s hand shot out, stopping me.

“Where are you going?”

“Home,” I said vaguely.

“Home? Since when do you take an international flight to go home? Couldn’t you come up with a better excuse?”

Sloane snickered.

“Just say it, Eliza. You’re here to stop Dean from leaving, aren’t you?”

The ridicule that used to stab me felt completely dull now.

I admitted it, my face blank. “Yes.”

Dean grinned. “If you truly wanted to come with me to New York, you could have just said so. Why the clumsy attempt at chasing me?”

“You’re right.”

“Fine. I’ll buy you a ticket right now.”

“Or you can go back to the house. I promise I’ll come home early to you.”

I filtered out all the maddening words, responding only in single-syllable acknowledgments, eager to end the conversation.

Dean’s face darkened. “Eliza, are you even listening to me?”

“Mhm.”

“Eliza?!”

I seemed to startle awake. “You’re absolutely right.”

“May I go now?”

9

“Dean, just let her go. She won’t get three steps before she comes running back to you.” Sloane’s voice drilled into my ear.

I stopped. I realized I had one thing left to confirm.

I turned around, and the relief in Dean’s expression was palpable.

“There is one more thing I need to confirm with you.”

He watched me, perfectly composed, waiting for me to falter.

I asked, “Did you open the gift I gave you?”

He laughed lightly, shaking his head with an air of mild exasperation. “Not yet. I’ve been too busy these past two days.”

He paused, scanning my face for a flicker of anxiety or disappointment. “What, you flew all this way just to hurry me up on unwrapping a gift?”

I thought for a moment.

I went straight to the crux of the matter.

“Dean Harrison. You once said that if we divorced, you would give up your entire fortune.”

“Does that offer still stand?”

10

I remembered the time I saw the bill for the piece of jewelry he bought Sloane. The long string of zeros had rendered me speechless.

He had slowly taken off his glasses, looked at me, and said, “Let’s just divorce, then.”

“I’ll leave with nothing. You can take the hundreds of millions. You can buy anything you want for yourself, okay?”

I had seen the madness in his eyes. I saw the disdain of a man who thought his extraordinary ability to make money meant he was superior.

I also saw his absolute confidence that I would never leave him.

Back then, I was consumed by a desperate stubbornness. “Is it about the money?”

“How dare you try to buy me off with cash?”

“No. You will never get a divorce from me!”

How foolish I had been.

Money was excellent.

Especially since, legally, a significant portion of it was mine anyway, built from my original investment, no matter how much it had been diluted.

11

His eyes hardened again. “Eliza, you are never going to let this go, are you?”

“You want a divorce? You really think you can handle that?”

“She’s probably just mad about that tacky yellow tiger’s eye necklace, Dean,” Sloane scoffed. “It was something I was going to trash anyway, and I guess he just gave it to you instead.”

“Next time, we’ll make sure the gift we pick out for you is expensive enough, alright?”

I felt a small sting of disappointment.

So, the full asset transfer wasn’t real.

That was a shame.

I looked down and quickly forwarded all the evidence to my lawyer.

File for divorce.

I’m done waiting.

12

I pulled my suitcase, slowly moving toward the security checkpoint.

I heard Dean say something behind me, but the noise of the airport crowd swallowed his words.

The loud, rhythmic chime of the New Year’s clock began to ring, and bright lights flashed in the distance.

Philadelphia.

The name rolled off my tongue, carrying a long-forgotten tremor of anticipation, a feeling that belonged only to me.

The mecca of clinical psychology.

I had planned this trip countless times, packing and unpacking my suitcase, booking and canceling my ticket.

Each time, Dean had an excuse to postpone. Too busy. Next time. Or a sudden, urgent crisis involving Sloane would effortlessly wipe away all my plans.

Now, the final obstacle—the one named Love—had been completely removed from my heart. The path ahead was clear.

Just then, my long-dormant professional account suddenly received a comment.

[Dr. Eliza, I’m in love with a toxic man but can’t leave him. I keep going back. I feel pathetic. What do I doooo?]

I was surprised anyone was still posting on the account.

I realized I’d spent the last few years stuck in that exact cycle. It was like looking at my former self.

My finger paused, then I began to type:

[Adopt a Player Mindset. If you can’t leave, stay. But stop tying your self-worth to his affection. Extract the emotional comfort you need, and nothing more. Your pain is real, and it doesn’t need his validation to prove it. Remember, you’re temporarily lost, not permanently cheap.]

Send.

It was the final answer I gave to the person I used to be.