Where Freedom Begins
Soon after I came back to the country, someone slapped me right across the face in broad daylight, yelling that I was a mistress.
A crowd of reporters closed in, pelting me with questions about whether Chandler Armstrong, CEO of Armstrong Industries, was keeping me as his mistress.
I was stunned speechless for a moment, but then I pulled out my wedding photo with Chandler from seven years ago and held it up.
"What are you talking about? I'm his wife!"
The crowd went silent, and the woman who'd slapped me turned white as a sheet.
Only then did I finally get it: while I'd been overseas, Chandler had been openly involved with an actress, and everyone in his social circle had already decided she was the future Mrs. Armstrong.
Today, they all came expecting to confront a mistress—only to find out that I was actually his wife.
Later, Chandler tried to justify it. "Alina, you've been out of the country for years. I'm a man, and I have needs. She's just a B-list actress; it's not like she threatens your position. Why should you be upset? Just let it go," he said. "Don't make a scene."
I handed him the divorce papers. "You make me sick."
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