Thiago

My husband Thiago married me eight times and divorced me eight times for the woman he truly loved. But today there wouldn't be a ninth time. "Let's get a divorce. Her first love is here." I placed the divorce papers on the mahogany desk right above his keyboard. Thiago didn't even blink. He simply picked up his pen, signed his name with a lazy flick of his wrist, and handed the document back to me. "We'll get tired of each other again when she leaves in a month," he said, his eyes already on his screen . "For now, just go for a walk. Buy yourself something nice." It was always like this. Macarena was a free spirit who despised the idea of ​​marriage and being tied down. She preferred to travel the world, living completely carefree. But whenever she got bored or felt lonely, she'd return to the city, and Thiago would immediately clear the way for her wedding, which meant divorcing me. Then, once his passion for travel resurfaced and abandoned him again, he would call me back to resume my role as his convenient and legally obligated substitute. I didn't say a word, I simply turned away, walked to our master bedroom, and took my suitcase from the closet. I started packing my clothes—usually, this was the part where I cried, where I begged him to look at me, to choose me, to explain why I was never enough. Today, the room was deathly silent. Heavy footsteps suddenly burst into the room. Before I could even grab my last shirt, Thiago grabbed my arm and pulled me to face him. "What the hell was that?" he demanded, his jaw clenched. "Aren't you going to say a word? Aren't you jealous?" "Macarena's here." I gently pulled my arm out of his grip and turned back to my suitcase. Thiago stared at me as if I'd lost my mind. "What's wrong with you?" he barked, invading my space . "Are you cheating on me? Is that why you don't care?"