Catch Me If You Can, Hubby! I Faked an Affair to Escape You

Three years of marriage, and Asher Sterling has never touched me. I put on a sheer lace nightgown, faked a collarbone full of hickeys, and sent him a sleepy selfie from a "third-person" angle. "Man, she smells amazing." "Hurry up and divorce her so I can have her." I figured Asher would be disgusted and furious when he got this anonymous text. He would toss me out like trash. After all, I was just my sister’s substitute. I thought this would finally be the end of our marriage. But I never expected that right after receiving the text, he would fly back across the country overnight. Sienna was in Europe, celebrating her third wedding anniversary. She called to ask what I wanted for a gift. I only asked for a burner SIM card. Holding the plastic card in my hand, standing in the empty hotel room, I let out a long breath. Then, I changed into the sheer, lace nightgown I had bought specifically for this plan. Looking in the mirror, I used a small makeup tool to create realistic, bruised hickeys on my collarbone and neck. They looked dark and messy, as if someone had claimed me with wild, dominant passion. I even tore one of the thin straps of my nightgown. Finally, I smudged my lipstick slightly across my lips. I sat on the bed and messed up the pillows on the other side to make it look like someone else had been sleeping there. I closed my eyes. I set the camera on a timer, mimicking a candid photo taken by someone else. Three, two, one. In the photo, I looked like a woman who had just been thoroughly loved, sleeping deeply and defencelessly. I stared at the screen for a long time. My mind drifted to Asher’s ruthless reputation in the business world. They called him a smiling tiger. A cold-blooded corporate shark who would eat you alive without leaving bones. But to me, he was just a cold, emotionless face. Beautiful, yes. But all of his warmth and affection had belonged to my sister, Sienna. I was prepared for the worst. Even if Asher didn't care about me at all, no man could tolerate being cheated on. He might try to ruin me. But in the end, he would be too disgusted to keep me. He would throw a divorce agreement in my face. And that was all I wanted. I just wanted a divorce. I closed my eyes and hit send. Along with the photo, I sent a casual, mocking text: "Man, she smells amazing." "Hurry up and divorce her so I can have her." Sent. In less than two seconds, my phone vibrated. Asher: "Who is this?" I took my time changing back into my normal clothes. I deliberately delayed my reply, enjoying the twisted thrill of keeping him waiting. Was he furious right now? Was he ready to skin this anonymous sender alive? Asher Sterling, the golden boy who had been perfect and in control his entire life, was finally having his strings pulled by someone else. And that someone was me—the girl he kept locked in his palm. After three years of silent misery, I felt a sudden spike of adrenaline. As I was pulling on a sweater, Asher sent two more messages on Snapchat. "Don't use cheap deepfakes on me. Tell me what you want." "I suggest you cut the crap and tell me the truth if you want to keep your hands." I let out a soft laugh and typed back. "Mr. Sterling, if you think it’s a deepfake, why don't you ask your wife yourself?" "The hickeys on my baby's neck won't fade anytime soon." I dared to say this because I knew Asher was currently in London negotiating a massive tech merger. He couldn't possibly get back for at least two weeks. Suddenly, my actual phone—my real number—started screaming. I jumped, my heart leaping into my throat. The caller ID flashed: *Asher.* I bit my lip, staring at the screen until the call timed out. But a second later, it lit up again. He was calling repeatedly, refusing to give up. I knew I had pushed his buttons. My heart hammered against my ribs. I felt like I was walking a tightrope over a pit of fire. I picked up the burner phone and sent another message: "Mr. Sterling, stop calling. We went at it five times. Your wife is exhausted and asleep." The calls finally stopped. My real phone went completely silent. I typed one last message on the burner SIM: "I didn't mean to break you guys up, man. But your wife and I are truly in love. Be a man, sign the papers, and let her go." "Otherwise, everyone’s going to find out you're wearing a massive green horn, and that won't look good for your stock prices." Asher didn't reply after that. With trembling hands, I threw the torn lace nightgown into the hotel trash can, checked out, and took an Uber back to our villa. The housekeepers were quietly dusting the grand foyer. Everything was normal, quiet, as if nothing had happened. I washed my face and crawled into bed. But in the early morning, just as the sky was turning a pale grey, the sharp screech of tires outside woke me up. Before I could even process the sound, heavy, hurried footsteps echoed in the hallway, and my bedroom door rattled. "Chloe, open the door." His voice was dangerously low, tightly controlled, but there was a crack of sheer panic hiding underneath. I froze, the blood rushing out of my face. It was Asher.