Men are trash

Men are trash

Men are trash. They are nothing but poison wrapped in sweet words.

No, Rhea hadn't always thought that way. Not when the only man she had ever loved made her quit college to take care of his sick mother. Not when he stopped coming home for days at a time. Not when the tabloids buzzed with dating rumors about him and a younger actress. Not even when she confronted him, and he scoffed, telling her it was just gossip, that she was being delusional.

She hadn't thought about it then, not even when she considered believing him, because she had given up everything for him, and walking away meant losing years of sacrifice.

She hadn't thought about it when she swallowed her pride and stayed, telling herself that love was about patience, that he would come back to her. And she certainly hadn't thought about it when she finally caught him, red-handed, in their bed, with the same woman he swore meant nothing.

None of that had made her believe men were trash but this did.

"I want a divorce. Can't you hear what I said?" Oliver's voice was cold, echoing through the room.

The plate in Rhea's hands slipped, shattering against the marble floor. The sound barely registered over the pounding in her chest.

She hadn't misheard. He had asked for a divorce.

Her breath hitched as she lifted her gaze to her husband, searching his face for something but there was nothing. His expression remained cold, detached, as if he were discussing the weather rather than ending their marriage.

After all these years… After everything.

All the sacrifices, the patience, the desperate attempts to be the perfect wife. Every moment she had spent trying to please him, to make him happy, to be enough—only for him to stand there, looking at her like she was nothing.

He had come home today, after weeks of silence. She had almost forgotten what it felt like to be in the same room with him. For the past three weeks, the only glimpses she had of him were through news articles and television screens. He never answered her calls, never sent a message, never let her know if he was safe.

But, tonight, he walked into their home. Her heart had soared because today was their anniversary.

For a foolish moment, she believed he had come back for her, just maybe, he remembered today was their five-year anniversary. That despite everything, he still cared.

She had rushed to the kitchen, her hands trembling with excitement as she started preparing his favorite meal. She wanted tonight to be special. She wanted to celebrate their love.

But instead….a stack of divorce papers had been thrown at her face.

Rhea swallowed hard, her fingers curling into fists as she fought the sting of tears. She had given this man everything. And in return, he had given her nothing but heartbreak.

Rhea's hand trembled as she clutched the divorce papers. The irrational part of her, the part that still believed she could convince him, took over before she could stop herself.

"Oliver, I don't think we should—"

He cut her off before she could finish.

"You don't think what? You don't think we should divorce?" A chuckle escaped his lips. "So you want me to continue this marriage with someone like you? Well, if that's what you think, I'm sorry to disappoint you. I want a divorce. Sign the papers."

His words cut deeper than any blade, but still, she held on.

"But what about your party?" she tried again, her voice barely above a whisper. "You're running for election soon. What if the news—"

Oliver stepped forward, closing the distance between them. Instinctively, she stepped back, her body reacting before her mind could process the danger in his stance.

"Rhea," he said, his voice low, almost mocking. "Enough games. Do you really think I didn't plan for this? That I would let something as trivial as a divorce affect my campaign? I've already taken care of everything. The only thing left is for you to sign the papers and get your reward for playing your part all these years."

Her breath caught in her throat. She slowly lowered her gaze to the papers in her hands.

Her reward.

A mansion. Ten million dollars.

That was all she was worth to him. It wasn't about the money. She didn't care if it was ten million or ten dollars. What broke her was that this was how he saw her. A transaction. A contract fulfilled. A deal completed.

"So… this is all I get?" she asked, her eyes lifting to meet his. "For everything I've done for you?"

Oliver's lips curled in irritation. To him, this was proof of her greed. Of course, she wanted more. It didn't matter. He would give her anything if it meant getting rid of her.

"Fine," he said coldly. "Name your price."

Rhea let out a hollow laugh, one that tasted of bitterness and regret.

"Oliver," she began, "when we first met, I was just a 23-year-old college student. I had a dream to become a lawyer. I was an orphan, and I worked myself to the bone, juggling multiple jobs to make that dream a reality. But then you came into my life."

She let out a shaky breath, the memories flooding in like a cruel joke.

"You treated me so kindly. I fell in love with you at first sight, not because you were an upcoming politician, not because of your wealth or power, but because I thought you were good. And when you asked me to leave school to take care of your sick mother, I did it. For you." She swallowed hard. "I sacrificed so much, Oliver. And this… this is what I get in return?"

Her voice cracked, and for the first time, Oliver hesitated. But it was so brief, that if she had blinked, she would have missed it.

His face remained impassive, his jaw tight. Rhea didn't know why she was saying all this. Maybe it was desperation. Maybe it was closure.

Or maybe, deep down, some foolish part of her still wanted him to tell her she had meant something.

Rhea barely had time to process the weight of her own words before Oliver scoffed, his expression hardening.

"Why are you pretending you didn't get anything in return?" he snapped, "Because of me, you gained wealth. You became the wife of the richest politician in the world. You were involved in high society, attending events most people could only dream of."

Rhea stared at him, gripping the divorce papers tightly in her hand. High society?

How should she even begin to explain?

That same high society had never accepted her. They mocked her for her origins, said she didn't belong. They laughed at her for her simple clothes, for the way she carried herself, for not being elegant or sophisticated enough. They ridiculed her behind her back for her husband's affairs, for being a woman who couldn't even keep her own man.

And worst of all, Oliver had let them. She reached up and adjusted her glasses, blinking rapidly as her vision blurred with tears. No. He's not worth it. Don't cry.

She took a deep breath and then, quietly, she asked, "Is this about her?"

Oliver's face remained unreadable, but she didn't miss the slight shift in his gaze.

"Victoria," she said, forcing herself to say the name.

"She's part of it," he admitted flatly.

Rhea's fingers curled into fists. Victoria was everything she could never be—young, beautiful, charismatic. A rising star in the entertainment industry, a woman the media adored. She had seen the rumors, she was the reason Oliver had started staying out later and later, until finally she saw them on their bed.

But hearing him say it out loud… it hurt more than she expected.

She nodded slowly, swallowing the lump in her throat. Then, without another word, she picked up the pen and signed her name at the bottom of the divorce papers.

Oliver blinked, momentarily stunned.

Just like that? She didn't scream? Didn't beg? There was no dramatic outburst? She was letting go this easily?

Rhea placed the pen down and looked at him. "I've signed it," she said. "But I don't need your money. And I don't need your house."

His brows furrowed slightly. That, he hadn't expected. She didn't wait for him to respond. Instead, she turned on her heel and walked upstairs.

She moved quickly, pulling open the closet and tossing her clothes into a suitcase. She didn't have much. Shopping had never been her thing, and even when she had the chance, she rarely bought anything extravagant.

Her fingers hesitated over a blue dress tucked away in the corner of the wardrobe. It was the dress Oliver had bought for her on their first date. For a moment, we she just stood there, staring at it, memories threatening to swallow her whole.

Then, with a deep breath, she left it behind.

Dragging her suitcase behind her, she descended the stairs and found Oliver sitting on the couch, a glass of wine in his hand. He was watching her.

She reached the door and paused, glancing back at him one last time.

"We might be divorced," she said softly, "but I'll still look after your mother when I have the chance. Despite what you did, she was the only person that gave me joy."

She turned to leave, but his voice stopped her.

"No need."

She froze, and turned to face him. Oliver swirled the wine in his glass, his expression cold, indifferent.

"There's no need," he repeated. "Because she's not my mother."