The Ninth Time I Took Off My Wedding Ring

For five years, my crime boss husband made me take off my wedding ring nine times—all for his precious damsel in distress.

When we first married, he promised me: "From now on, you're my queen, the queen of New Orleans."

But whenever Brianna came crying for help, he'd change his tune: "Mr. Parker saved my life, Claire. I owe his family everything."

And like a fool, I believed him eight times.

Eight times I watched from the shadows as he took another woman to our favorite restaurants.

Eight times I explained to the crew that our "separation" was just giving each other space.

Eight times I watched her move into my bedroom, use my dishes, sleep in my bed.

All for a man who kept making me slip off my ring, then slide it back on, over and over again.

Until the ninth time, when he said he needed to provide sperm for her fertility treatment, and I offered to leave.

He still thinks this is just another temporary break, expecting me to come crawling back in a month like always.

He'll never know I've already booked my ticket out of here.

"Just sign it. Brianna needs you, I know."

I gently pushed the already-signed "Ninth Separation Agreement" across to Clifford Montgomery.

The study was silent except for the ticking of the clock. Brianna Parker's medical report lay spread across the desk—ovarian dysfunction, abnormal hormone levels, recommendation for immediate assisted reproductive treatment. The final line was marked in red ink: [This is the patient's last chance to conceive.]

Clifford was clearly stunned.

This was the first time I hadn't questioned, hadn't argued, hadn't broken anything.

"You're... finally being reasonable," he said, though his hand hesitated as he reached for the pen.

I watched him sign, his movements as practiced as handling monthly bills. But I could tell this time was different. His brow furrowed deeper, as if weighing something.

For five years, every time I questioned his favoritism toward Brianna, he'd trot out the same old line: "I'm indebted to the Parker family."

And now, this "debt" required him to give them a child.

As he closed the file, Clifford habitually delivered the line he'd repeated eight times before: "One month from now, once Brianna's treatment succeeds, we'll restore our marriage. I'll personally put the wedding ring back on your finger myself."

In the past, I would have pressed for details, demanded guarantees, made him write down his promises.

But this time, I felt nothing inside, not even the desire to respond.

"Claire," he said, his tone sharpening, "are you even listening to me?"

I simply lowered my eyes to look at my signature on the document. "I heard you."

When Clifford said our marriage would be restored, it would be restored. In New Orleans' underground world, his word was law.

Our marriage had never felt like a husband-wife relationship from the start—more like a business agreement between two powerful families. Except this agreement had one clause: when Brianna appeared, it could be temporarily suspended.

For five years, I'd signed eight "separations" and witnessed eight of his attempts to save her.

I remembered our wedding day, when he held my hand and said: "During our marriage, I belong to you alone."

He had kept that promise.

During separations, whoever he was with didn't count as betrayal. And I was just the wife who could be "paused" at any time.

I opened the walk-in closet. My luggage had been packed long ago, ready to be taken at a moment's notice.

Clifford watched me check my suitcase, his expression growing strange. Last time, I'd shattered the entire mirror in here, glass shards cutting into his shoulder. The time before that, I'd burned the sheets, the fire nearly spreading through the entire estate.

But this time, I simply zipped up the case calmly.

"Or... maybe I should move to the downtown apartment this time? You stay here," he said, his voice probing.

I knew what he was waiting for. He was staring at my face, trying to catch some flicker of emotion—anger, hurt, anything was better than this deathly silence.

I didn't even look up: "No need. I'll stay at Flora's villa for a few days."

At the mention of "Flora," Clifford's expression instantly darkened.

"You're going to my sister again?" He stepped forward, his voice low but sharp. "Like last time, when you convinced her to throw wine at Brianna in public? Or the time before, when you took her to follow us around, taking those 'evidence' photos?"

I continued packing without responding.

But he wasn't finished: "Claire, could you please get a life? For five years, your entire existence has revolved around watching me, scheming against Brianna, and turning people against me."

Looking at his self-righteous expression, I instantly understood the real meaning behind his angry accusations—Stay Away From Me And Brianna.

He just didn't want me interfering with them.

For this month, he wanted to devote himself completely to accompanying Brianna through her treatment, without being disrupted by me, his "paused wife."

Only this time, Clifford's worries were truly unnecessary.