I Dumped My Husband After Years of Lies

Once again, Eric Jones, my husband, ranked first globally as the photographer that female models most wanted to spend the night with. Yet he had never taken a single photo of me, his wife. When reporters asked, he couldn't hide the adoration in his eyes. "Only I get to admire my wife. No one else gets to see her." On my birthday, I excitedly changed into a lace nightgown and, for the first time, asked him to take a photo. Minutes passed without the shutter sounding. Behind the camera, only Eric's stiff expression remained. "Never mind," he said. My excitement vanished, replaced by confusion. "What's wrong?" "Well..." He gave a dry chuckle. "Photography is work, after all. I don't want to mix work with you." With that, he put the camera away and headed into the bathroom. The darkroom door was slightly ajar, casting a red glow. I went in. On the workstation lay a photo album titled "Hailey Roberts' Private Diary." I flipped through it. Photos of every kind—different levels of intimacy, every imaginable pose—filled the album. The shock tore through me like a bullet, straight to the heart. The woman in the photos was sometimes playful, sometimes seductive, sometimes innocent. Every single one of them seemed to shatter the boundaries that Eric had repeatedly sworn to uphold. He had once promised me, standing before the media with me behind the lens: "I only shoot commercial model photos. If you're looking for private boudoir photos, don't come to me. My wife's rules are strict." Yet here was this girl, unabashedly displaying her voluptuous figure to the photographer. Each photo was a slap, jolting me awake. I let the album drop, my arms leaden. When Eric pushed the door open, his mouth fell open in surprise, a flicker of guilt flashing in his eyes. After a few seconds of silence, I was the one to break the unbearable quiet. "Who is this girl?" My voice was eerily calm. In the dim room, he didn't notice my trembling body. The man was calmer than I expected. "Just... a client." "When we started from scratch, if we hadn't taken side jobs for extra cash, we'd have starved." My gaze landed on the album's last photo, dated just two days ago. That night, a storm raged outside. Burning with fever, my head splitting with pain, I struggled up only to find him gone. He'd brushed it off. "I was here the whole time. You were delirious from the fever, silly." Maybe I really was a complete fool. Tears welled in my eyes as I finally voiced the question buried in my heart for five years. "You've never taken a single photo of me. Not one." On every trip we took, other boyfriends would take beautiful pictures of their girlfriends. Yet my husband, a world-renowned photographer, refused to even pick up his camera for me. "Taking photos is work. We're supposed to be relaxing," he'd say. I could only twitch the corners of my mouth in futile self-mockery. But the question lodged in my heart, like a sharp knife, stabbing into my flesh again and again. As I stared at him, his guilt laid bare, he finally mustered the courage to confess. "Hailey inspires me. Nothing more. Do you really need to push this further?" The darkroom was eerily silent; only I could hear the cracks forming in my heart. Then Eric's phone rang, shattering the stillness. "It's my birthday today. If you don't come, I'll find another photographer for those super risqué shots I've been wanting," a woman's voice teased, laced with playful insistence. I recognized that sugary voice instantly. It was hers—the girl in the photos. Panicked, Eric snatched his camera and left without a backward glance. He was too preoccupied to remember that today was my birthday, too. I sat alone at the table, eating my cake. Then I responded to a birthday message. Evelyn: I want a divorce. Can you make this birthday wish come true?