He Brought Unemployed Girls Home, I Chose Divorce

My husband, Kolt, was a renowned philanthropist, constantly “rescuing” unemployed girls.

Initially, I even supported him.

But gradually, he started bringing those girls home, letting them take over my bedroom, wear my pajamas, and even order me to run errands in the middle of the night to buy them condoms.

In that moment, I knew the marriage I had meticulously maintained was utterly rotten.

On our fifth anniversary, I asked him for a divorce.

All I got was a cold, mocking laugh.

“Bonnie, you’re not young anymore. You won’t find anyone better if you leave me.”

I slipped off my silver ring and tossed it into the trash.

“You’re right, I’m not young. That’s precisely why it’s time to cut my losses.”

After tearing up the divorce papers, Kolt smoked in the living room all night.

Early the next morning, he walked into the bedroom, trying to persuade me to “see things clearly.”

“Skye is just staying with us for a few days. If you’re really divorcing me because of her, you don’t have to!”

Meeting his venomous gaze, my heart chilled inch by agonizing inch.

My thoughts scattered, always drifting back to the countless photos of different girls on his phone.

Lately, though, he seemed to have settled down, becoming “devoted.”

Rumors were flying around the company: he was obsessed with the ninety-ninth unemployed girl he’d “rescued,” Skye.

He’d not only cleared out a lounge for her in his office but had even specially ordered a massive, custom-made king-size bed from overseas, all to cater to her “delicate body.”

Everyone downstairs was betting that this naive young girl had the power to keep Kolt away from home for three months straight.

She was going to be the future Mrs. Hayes.

Mid-negotiation, Kolt took a call and rushed out.

Before he left, he turned to me.

“Bonnie, you need time to calm down. I’ll book you an appointment with a therapist.”

A single tear fell, silent and unnoticed.

During our toughest year, I lived with him in a tiny, cramped studio apartment, where the summer heat made you want to jump from the sixty-eighth floor.

I wasn’t “sick” then.

But now, after he’d achieved success and amassed billions, I was the hysterical lunatic in everyone’s eyes.

My phone vibrated beside me twice, automatically displaying a string of photos.

At the bottom was a provocative message.

“Bonnie, don’t I look pretty in a wedding dress? Kolt said I look like a princess. He wasn’t just flattering me, was he?”

In the photos, Skye was draped in a white gown, her slender arms wrapped around Kolt’s neck, her face radiating the smug satisfaction of a conqueror.

My fingertips, gripping the phone, turned white.

So, Kolt was busy, but not too busy to take wedding photos. He looked even more handsome in a groom’s suit than I’d imagined.

In our five years of marriage, we’d never once taken wedding photos.

Back then, we genuinely couldn’t afford it.

Kolt had promised me.

“Bonnie, once I get my first big paycheck, I’ll make you the happiest bride in the world.”

“You love diamonds, right? You said they represent eternity. Someday, I’ll custom-make a diamond-encrusted wedding dress just for you.”

“Okay, it’s a promise.”

I’d responded with a sweet smile.

Later, his business grew bigger and bigger, he often stayed out all night, and his promise of wedding photos became a distant dream.

I let out a self-deprecating laugh, unable to hold back my tears anymore.

Kolt, you truly broke your promises countless times.