Breaking a Marriage Scam

At six-thirty in the morning, the light filtered through the curtains like scattered flakes of gold, falling softly onto the living room floor. I stood by the kitchen island in the open-plan kitchen, carefully placing the toast I had just taken from the oven onto the blue-and-white porcelain plate. The edges of the toast bore an enticing caramel color, the warm scent of wheat and butter slowly permeating the air. Such mornings had repeated themselves for a full three years. Since I resigned from a well-known design company three years ago, tending to household chores, preparing three meals a day, and waiting for my husband, Mark Young, to return home have become the sole focus of my life. The design sketches I once cherished were set aside, and the creativity at my fingertips gradually yielded to the mundane smoke and heat of daily life. Mark came home over an hour earlier than usual today. Just after four in the afternoon, the sound of a key turning in the lock came from the entrance hall. I wiped my hands and walked into the living room, where I saw him clutching two sheets of neatly folded A4 paper, his fingertips repeatedly tracing their edges. His face was much more tense than usual; the gentle brows and eyes I once knew were now shrouded in an inescapable melancholy, as if veiled by dust. He moved to the coffee table in the center of the living room and gently placed the two sheets of paper before me, his fingertips still unconsciously brushing their edges, as if trying to mask his inner unrest. "Take a look at this." His voice was noticeably lower than usual, his eyes deliberately drifting toward the greenery outside the window downstairs, avoiding my gaze entirely, unwilling to meet my eyes. I set down the still-warm cup of milk; the soft clink as its base touched the coffee table rang sharply in the quiet living room. I reached out, took the two sheets of paper, and unfolded them slowly. "Infertility Diagnosis" and "HIV Positive Test Report" — two lines of black Song font stood starkly before my eyes, like two cold stones, instantly numbing my fingertips. A cold shiver surged from the soles of my feet up to the crown of my head, making me shudder uncontrollably. I suddenly raised my eyes to Mark Young, my throat tightening, my voice trembling with disbelief: "This... how could this be my report? When I had my check-up at the hospital last week, I specifically asked the doctor, who clearly said all my health indicators were normal, not even a minor problem." I fixed my gaze on him, hoping he would tell me this was just a cruel joke. Mark Young let out a heavy sigh and reached out his hand as if to touch my shoulder, perhaps intending to comfort me. But instinctively, I recoiled, avoiding his touch. His hand hung frozen in the air, then slowly retreated after a few seconds, his voice feigning helplessness and tenderness: "The hospital only sent the final detailed results yesterday. When I first received them, I couldn't believe it either and confirmed with the hospital several times." Willow, listen... let's just get a divorce. I don't want these things to hold you back in life." His words were like a blunt knife, slowly cutting through my heart. I looked at his feigned affection, my heart full of doubt yet unable to find a reason to argue, helplessly allowing unease to spread within me. Just past eleven at night, the bedroom lay in absolute silence. Mark Young was sleeping deeply; his steady breath sounded unusually clear in the stillness, even faintly tinged with a soft snore. But I found no rest—my mind kept replaying the words on the day's report and every sentence Mark had spoken. Each word was like a needle piercing my heart, leaving a sharp ache. I slipped quietly from beneath the covers and rose, walking barefoot toward the study. By the faint glow spilling in from the living room, I opened the briefcase Mark had placed in the desk drawer. I would never have thought to rummage through his things before, but today, the doubts stirred by that report forced me to break this habit. In the briefcase's inner compartment lay a folded hospital receipt and a mobile phone screenshot, resting silently. I unfolded the receipt; the payment item was glaringly labeled "Fabrication Fee for False Diagnostic Report," with the payer's name clearly printed as Mark Young. I then took up the mobile phone screenshot, showing W Chat chat records between Mark Young and someone marked "Lydia." "Mark, I've prepared the report exactly as you requested. I pulled some strings at the hospital lab; it's crafted to be identical to the real thing, with absolutely no flaws."Following the news about "Lydia," there was a playful smile emoji, brimming with a certain pride. Mark Young's reply was brief, yet it pierced my heart like a sharp blade: "Thank you for your effort, Lydia. Once she signs the divorce agreement, the house and savings will all be mine. I'll transfer you half as compensation then." I gripped the screenshot on my mobile phone tightly, my knuckles whitening with the force, my fingernails nearly digging into my palm. It turned out that those so-called "illnesses" were nothing but a scheme hatched by him and this woman called "Lydia." Their intention was to make me believe I was seriously ill, to fill me with guilt and coerce me into signing the divorce agreement, then to force me out of the marriage penniless, so he and that woman could take over our house and savings. Anger and disappointment surged over me like a tide, and tears welled up uncontrollably in my eyes. I suppressed my sobs, afraid of waking Mark Young, letting the tears fall in silence. The next morning, Mark Young sat across from me at the table, casually spreading jam on his toast as he brought up the divorce again: "Willow, have you given any thought to the divorce I mentioned yesterday? I've already found a lawyer. The divorce agreement can be ready today. If you have no objections, let's finalize the process as soon as possible. It's better for both of us." His tone was as casual as if he were discussing the weather, betraying not a flicker of the urgency within. I set down the utensils in my hand and pushed the hospital receipt I found yesterday, along with the mobile screenshots, towards him. My voice was calm without a single tremor, yet carried an unmistakable chill: "Mark Young, must I really explain once more how you and Lydia Carter conspired to falsify my diagnostic report?" I fixed my gaze on his eyes, eager to witness his defense. The moment Mark saw the receipt and the screenshots, his face instantly went ghostly pale. He fumbled anxiously, reaching for the mobile phone on the table, his voice trembling with panic and anger: "How did you see these things? Who told you to go through my briefcase without permission? This is an invasion of my privacy!" His voice grew louder, attempting to cover his guilt with anger. "What is done in secret will eventually be revealed." I reached out and held his hand, stopping him from grabbing the phone, my gaze steady as I faced him. "Divorce is fine; there's nothing to negotiate. But the one who should leave this home is you, not me." I will not let his scheme succeed, nor will I allow myself to suffer injustice in vain.