The Wife's Secret Identity Stuns the Globe

At the VIP passage of Emerald City's international airport, Emily Johnson took off her sunglasses, revealing a slightly tired but still refined face.

The two-week tour was over, and she was eager to get home.

Her assistant hurried to catch up, reporting in a low voice: "Ms. Johnson, the car is ready. Straight back to Serenity Peaks Estates?"

"Yes, straight home." Emily's voice was cold, carrying a hint of anticipation she herself hadn't noticed.

She settled into the back seat, unconsciously flexing her slender fingers. The calluses on her fingertips, formed from pressing guitar strings in her youth, hadn't thinned over the years—instead, they'd grown thicker from her work as both a housewife and James Smith's assistant.

After two weeks of touring, her hands were more tired than her heart.

Because during these two weeks, her husband James hadn't reached out to her once.

She unlocked her phone screen. It was already 10 PM—only two hours left until their seventh wedding anniversary would be completely over.

Her phone was full of messages from orchestra members congratulating her on the successful tour. She politely replied to each one, but her fingertips grew colder as she scrolled.

She scrolled down three times. That pinned conversation still showed no activity.

Her husband James hadn't sent her anything.

The car entered Serenity Peaks Estates. This top-tier wealthy neighborhood in Emerald City was quiet in the night.

Emily pushed open the car door. The evening breeze, heavy with moisture, hit her face.

She dragged her suitcase alone, her high heels clicking crisply through the empty courtyard.

The living room lights were on, but everything was quiet.

The housekeeper Echo, hearing the commotion, hurried out from the kitchen, looking somewhat uncomfortable.

"Mrs. Smith, you're back." Her gaze was evasive, not daring to meet Emily's eyes.

"Where's James?" Emily set her suitcase down in the entryway, glancing at the empty living room.

Echo's hands fidgeted nervously on her apron as she answered quietly: "Mr. Smith... hasn't come back yet."

"Did he ask about me?" Emily asked.

Echo shook her head.

Emily's last bit of hope completely vanished.

She didn't ask any more questions. She changed out of her heels and walked barefoot across the cold floor, step by step toward the second floor.

This kind of disappointment—she'd grown used to it in recent years.

She gently pushed open the door to the children's room. The door made a soft sound.

Under the desk lamp, her five-year-old son Erik Smith was hunched over his desk, his small body buried in a pile of brushes and paper, concentrating on his drawings.

"Erik, I'm home." Emily's voice was very soft, carrying a hint of pleading she herself hadn't noticed.

Erik's shoulders tensed. He didn't turn around.

He just muttered impatiently: "Ms. Brown says you have to be quiet when you're drawing."

Emily's heart stung.

She walked over and bent down, wanting to hug him from behind.

She missed his scent, missed his soft hair.

But just as her hands were about to touch him, Erik jerked away, his movement full of disgust.

"What are you doing?"

Erik looked up, his eyes—so similar to James's—full of wariness and distance. "You're bothering me."

Emily's hand froze in mid-air, her fingertips ice-cold.

She saw what Erik was drawing on the card, written in childish handwriting: Happy Birthday Sophia.

Sophia, the private tutor James had specially hired for Erik.

A gentle, considerate woman who knew better than Emily how to please both James and Erik.

Emily took a deep breath, pushing down the hurt inside, trying to make her voice sound calm. "Erik, do you know what day it is today?"

"No."

Erik kept drawing. "Sophia's birthday is coming up. I need to prepare the best gift for her. Stop bothering me."

"Erik, today is Dad and my wedding anniversary." Emily reminded him seriously.

Erik's brush paused. He looked up, his eyes showing an impatience that had clearly been taught to him: "Wedding anniversary? Sophia says only birthdays are the most important days. Dad already promised that on Sophia's birthday, he'll come home and we'll eat a super big cake together."

With that, he lowered his head and started coloring more vigorously on the paper, humming softly: "Happy birthday to Sophia..."

That innocent child's voice—every word like a needle, piercing Emily's heart.

Emily couldn't stay any longer.

She silently stood up, backed out of the children's room, and gently closed the door.

The closing door shut out the light inside, and also shut out her last bit of fantasy.

Seven years of marriage—she hadn't won James's heart, and even Erik treated her like an outsider.

She stood at the end of the hallway, where a huge wedding photo hung on the wall.

In the photo, she was smiling, happy and shy, nestled close to the man beside her.

And that man, James—even in the wedding photo, his eyes held scrutiny and distance.

She once thought that if she gave enough love, she could move him.

She thought her compromises and sacrifices could bring harmony to the family.

Now it seemed, everything was a joke.

Emily took out her phone, her fingertips trembling as she dialed that familiar number.

The phone rang for a long time before being answered, but before she could say anything, a woman's voice came through the receiver—it was Sophia, with a lazy laugh: "Hello? Looking for James? He just had some drinks and is taking a shower right now, can't come to the phone. If you need something, you can tell me."

Then, through the receiver came James's deep voice, tinged with indulgence and helplessness: "Alright, give me the phone, stop being naughty." Then, the call was disconnected.

The disconnected call left Emily's mind in chaos.

So he wasn't busy—his time just didn't belong to her.

So he wasn't avoiding home—home just wasn't here.

On their wedding anniversary, he was with another woman, and they were showering and playing around together. What would happen next was obvious.

Emily leaned against the cold wall and slid down to the floor.

She braced herself against the wall and stood up, walking step by step back to the master bedroom. She didn't turn on the lights. The room was pitch black, just like her marriage.

Everywhere she looked, on the nightstand still sat a photo of them looking intimate—taken seven years ago at the entrance to the civil affairs bureau. In the photo, she was smiling like a fool.

And now, a thin layer of dust had settled on that frame.

James probably hadn't looked at it properly in a long time.

Enough.

She wouldn't wait anymore, wouldn't beg anymore.

This marriage in name only, this seven-year joke—today, she would end it with her own hands.

She picked up her phone. Her fingertip paused for a second on the wallpaper—their photo together from seven years ago—then she resolutely swiped it open, opened her contacts, found the entry labeled "Husband," long-pressed it, and deleted it.

After doing all this, she felt an unprecedented calm. She dialed a number.

"Hello, Mr. Collins? This is Emily. Could you please prepare divorce papers for me?"