Mr Grey, I want a divorce

For seven years, Mr. Grey and I have been married, and it doesn’t look like it. The papers and our rings are the only things that confirm our marriage, nothing more. No love, no conversation, not even intimacy. We haven’t even seen each other naked. The thought made a hollow pit grow in my stomach, one I had learned to swallow silently every day. He is the type of husband who is married to his work: always at the office, in a business meeting, or on a business trip. He never has time for me, or anything else. And whenever I try to call him, his secretary, David, is always the one picking up. “Mr. Grey is in a meeting.” That’s all I ever hear. On multiple occasions, that has been the answer. It has become a refrain, a mantra I’ve memorized over the years. And right now, I am sitting all alone in the luxurious five-star restaurant he booked for our anniversary. I can feel the plush velvet seat beneath me, the soft hum of the air conditioning, the low murmur of waiters and waitress in the coner. He has never done this before. Usually, he sends flowers or expensive jewelry as gifts. For birthdays, the same, gifts, never his presence. But this year is different. He sent me flowers along with a card that had the location on it, instructing me to come here. When I arrived, I gave the receptionist my last name, Mrs. Grey, and he told me that my husband had booked the entire restaurant just for us tonight. My chest had fluttered, hope warming my bones like a sudden sunbeam. Could this be a sign? Every single day, I’ve wished that one day my husband would finally realize he has a wife at home. Maybe my prayers have finally been answered. Maybe today, I will finally see Kai, my sweet, handsome husband. But as minutes turned to hours, my excitement began to fray at the edges. This has begun to bore me. Is he really coming? I’ve been sitting here for four hours since 7 p.m., and he has not arrived. This is the same as every night: I glance at the time, hoping to see my husband, but he never comes. I checked my phone multiple times, each glance tightening the knot in my chest, making the bright lights of the restaurant feel colder, the space between me and my imagined evening with him stretching impossibly wide. “Madam, should I bring the menu so you can eat something while you wait for Mr. Grey?” the waiter asked as he approached, his voice careful, almost sympathetic. “No, I’ll wait for my husband. It’s our anniversary,” I said with a smile, though it felt fragile on my lips. He nodded and returned to his position behind the counter, while the other waitresses whispered and stared at me. Well, they were allowed to. They had nothing better to do than watch me wait. I could feel their curious eyes tracking me like a silent audience, and a small part of me felt embarrassed, though I couldn’t tear myself away. I was hungry, I won’t lie. When I saw that card, I couldn’t eat. I was too overwhelmed. I kept telling myself that I was going to eat with Kai, and that would make it worth it. I stared down at my champagne glass, swirling the golden liquid absentmindedly, letting the bubbles tickle my fingertips, trying to distract myself from the gnawing ache in my stomach. The candlelight flickered against the crystal, throwing shards of warm glow across the table, but even that felt distant, like I was watching someone else’s life. After some time with no sign of him, I decided to call it a night and go home. I gathered my clutch and slid my fingers over the smooth leather, my thoughts heavy and tangled. That’s when a young lady walked in, dressed in an expensive gown that shimmered faintly under the lights. She looked beautiful, younger than me, and she went straight to the reservation counter. My heart skipped a beat at the sight of her elegance, the effortless confidence in the way she carried herself, the way the dress hugged her curves. “I have a reservation here,” she said. Our eyes met for a split second as I sipped my champagne, the liquid sharp on my tongue. “Oh, sorry ma’am, this restaurant is fully booked. You can book online and wait for a table,” the receptionist said, glancing at the system. “Hmmm, but my husband said he booked the whole place for me. I don’t understand what you mean,” the lady insisted, her voice steady, unwavering. “Your husband? We only have a reservation for Mr. and Mrs. Grey,” the receptionist said, scanning the system again. “Yes, a reservation for Mr. and Mrs. Grey. I am Mrs. Grey,” she said confidently, her eyes gleaming with something I couldn’t name. I didn’t hear any more words after that. My mind froze. Was Mr. Grey married to another woman? The last time I checked, I was Mrs. Grey. We were still married. How could this be? I couldn’t think further. My fingers clenched around the stem of my glass, feeling the cool tension bite into my skin. I stood up and walked straight toward her, the heels of my shoes clicking loudly against the polished floor. “Did you just say that you are Mrs. Grey?” I asked, my voice tight, brittle with disbelief and rising panic. “Who the hell are you? I am Mr. Grey’s wife, so I will be Mrs. Grey,” she said, her tone dripping with sarcasm, her head held high, a faint smirk playing at her lips. “I am Mrs. Grey. I have been married to Mr. Grey for seven years. I am his only wife,” I said, feeling my heart ache. Seven years wasted on someone who never noticed me, never loved me, never made me a priority. I had tolerated his neglect because he was always busy working, but this…this shattered me. Please tell me this is not real. My palms were sweaty, my chest tight, and my thoughts jumbled into a chaotic storm of disbelief and betrayal. “I’ve been married to Mr. Grey for five years now, and you must be the other,” I didn’t wait to hear more. I stumbled out of the restaurant, my mind reeling. The cool night air hit me like a slap, the crisp breeze carrying away the last remnants of my composure. My husband had another woman. And not only that, he had married her. Was that the reason he married me? So he could marry the one he truly loved? She looked young, beautiful, expensive…just like the women in novels about billionaire tycoons, where the man marries someone chosen by his family before he can be with his true love. If this was the plan all along, he could have told me. I would have played along. Our marriage had never been about love anyway. It was arranged by our parents. But when I first saw him, he was so remarkably handsome, like a prince charming, and I had fallen. And now I realized: he wasn’t the husband I had dreamed of. He wasn’t my prince charming. He was someone else’s. As I entered my car, I checked my phone. It was 12 a.m. I typed a message to him on w******p: “Mr. Grey, I want a divorce.” With that, he could finally be free to be with the one he truly loved.