Our 5th Wedding Anniversary: I Gave Him Divorce Papers

Champagne bubbles drifted lazily upward, matching the slow burn of fury in my chest. From our VIP box at the Vienna State Opera, I watched the glittering crowd below—all fake smiles and designer gowns, just like me.

I sat gracefully in the front row of the box, my silk evening gown perfectly hugging my curves, diamond necklace glittering under the soft amber lights.

Five years. Five years I'd perfected the art of maintaining composure at events like this, even as my heart was being torn apart.

"Darling, I'd like you to meet someone." Max's voice came from behind me, carrying that artificial tenderness I knew all too well.

I turned to see him with his arm around a young woman's waist, his hand placed in a position that was both intimate and deliberate. She had long chestnut hair and wore a deep blue backless gown, gazing at Max with a flirtatious smile.

"This is Lucia Smith, tonight's special guest pianist." Max deliberately emphasized the word "special." "Lucia, this is my wife, Isadora."

"Hello, Mrs. Habsburg." Lucia gave a slight nod, a flash of contempt crossing her eyes. "Max mentions you often."

Mentions what exactly? My musical incompetence? Or how I've become a burden in his eyes?

"Nice to meet you, Miss Smith," I maintained a polite smile. "I look forward to hearing you play."

Max completely ignored my comment, turning to Lucia instead. "Come, sit beside me. We can enjoy tonight's performance together."

He seated her in what was supposed to be my place—the most prominent seat next to him. I was forced to move over, relegated to the position of an irrelevant spectator.

The other aristocrats in the box were watching the drama unfold. I could feel their gazes—sympathetic yet secretly delighted by the spectacle. Their whispers, though faint, cut deep.

"This piano has such perfect tone," Lucia suddenly stood and walked toward the Steinway in the corner of the box. "Max, would you mind if I played something?"

"Not at all, darling," Max's tone carried a tenderness I'd never heard before. "Everyone would love to hear some real music."

Real music. Those two words struck me like a slap across the face.

Lucia's fingers began to dance across the keys, Chopin's Nocturne flowing effortlessly from her fingertips. I had to admit, her technique was impeccable, each note precise and expressive. But what hurt more was the way Max looked at her—that focused, appreciative, even infatuated gaze.

Once, he had looked at me that way.

"Now that's what real music sounds like," Max suddenly turned to me, a cold smirk on his lips. "Not everyone has an ear for real music."

He didn't say it loudly, but everyone in the box heard. The air seemed to freeze for several seconds before the aristocrats began to cough awkwardly, pretending they hadn't heard.

My cheeks burned, but I forced myself to remain calm. Five years of marriage had taught me how to maintain dignity in moments like these.

"Truly impressive," I said softly, my voice unwavering. "Miss Smith's talent is remarkable."

A flicker of surprise crossed Max's eyes, as if he hadn't expected such a composed response. But he quickly resumed his superior expression.

After the performance, we were ushered to the reception area outside the box. More reporters and socialites gathered there, camera flashes going off like fireworks.

I had intended to stand quietly in a corner, but Max deliberately guided Lucia toward the press, his arm around her. Their intimate posture intensified the camera clicks, and I knew what tomorrow's headlines would feature.

"Mr. Habsburg, how did your collaboration with Miss Smith begin?" a young reporter asked, microphone extended.

"Music brought us together," Max gazed at Lucia tenderly. "True artists always resonate with one another."

That word again—true. How many times had he used it tonight?

"And Mrs. Habsburg," the reporter suddenly turned the microphone toward me, eyes clearly provocative, "what are your thoughts on your husband's collaboration with this rising pianist?"

All eyes focused on me, including Max's, seemingly testing my reaction. I knew it was a trap—anything I said would be twisted.

But I had no choice.

"Art knows no boundaries," I smiled, my voice clear and steady. "I support all of Max's musical decisions. True art requires freedom, doesn't it?"

I deliberately echoed his word—"true"—but without a trace of sarcasm, only the elegance and understanding expected of an aristocrat's wife.

The reporters seemed disappointed. They had hoped for tears, anger, or at least some emotional reaction they could sensationalize. I gave them nothing.

Max's expression grew complex; I couldn't read his thoughts.

"I'm feeling tired," I said quietly to Max. "May I head home?"

He nodded but didn't immediately follow. I walked alone toward the exit, hearing the whispers behind me.

"Poor Isadora..."

"How could Max treat her like that..."

"Aristocratic marriages are all about appearances..."

Each comment cut like a knife, but my steps remained elegant and determined.

The luxury sedan was waiting outside the opera house. The driver opened the door, and I slid into the back seat. Minutes later, Max joined me, choosing to sit in the farthest corner.

As the car pulled away, Vienna's night scenery passed by the window. Those magnificent buildings and brilliant lights that once seemed so beautiful now only suffocated me.

"Nice performance," Max suddenly spoke. "Keep playing the devoted wife. You've had plenty of practice."

I turned to look out the window without immediately responding. The streetlights flickered across my face, mirroring the emotional turbulence within.

"It's my duty," I finally said.

Max remained silent for a long time. Through the window's reflection, I could see him watching me, his eyes holding an emotion I couldn't decipher. It wasn't anger or indifference, but rather a confusion, as if following some test.

But this confusion was quickly masked by his habitual coldness.

The car pulled through our estate gates, and I stared up at the Habsburg mansion—all Gothic towers and inherited grandeur. After five years, it still felt like a museum I was visiting, not a home.

I kept watching the house grow larger as we approached. It was what I did best, apparently."