The Cast-Off Wife

My name is Margaret Quentin. Today, I spent five million. This money wasn't for investment, nor for buying luxury goods—it was to transform a disfigured male model into Owen Greenspan's likeness. The operating room lights were on. I sat on the bench outside, my fingertips icy cold, yet clutching a sponsorship agreement I had long prepared. The terms on the agreement were very clear. He had to mimic Owen Greenspan's words and mannerisms, to act as my "husband" whenever I needed, until the day I grew tired of it. A nurse came out and said the surgery was a complete success. I nodded without getting up. My thoughts drifted back seven years. At that time, I had just married Owen Greenspan. Everyone said I had married well. The Greenspan family was powerful and wealthy; Owen was handsome and affluent. But only I knew how cold this marriage really was. In the first year of our marriage, my mother fell gravely ill. I called Owen Greenspan, crying. He said he was in an important meeting and hung up. After I had taken care of my mother's funeral, he returned. There was no consolation—he only asked, "Is the funeral over?" In the second year, I had a car accident and was lying in the hospital with more than ten stitches on my leg. He visited me once, stayed for five minutes, took a phone call, and then left. The voice on the other end was Sophie Donovan's. Later, I found out that Sophie Donovan was a female college student he was financially supporting. He cared for her a hundred times more than he cared for me, his wife. Once, I had a fever of 39 degrees and wanted him to accompany me to the hospital. He said that Sophie Donovan was going to an art exhibition, and he had to go with her. I watched his retreating back, and my heart grew colder, bit by bit. There were too many moments like this over the seven years. I thought that as long as I was good enough and endured silently, he would eventually see my worth. Until last month, when I accidentally overheard his phone call with his assistant. He said he was going to cancel several important company projects. His reason was to accompany Sophie Donovan on a world tour. At that moment, I finally woke up. It turns out it wasn't that he couldn't be gentle. It's just that his gentleness never belonged to me. On the day I signed the divorce papers, Owen Greenspan didn't even glance at me once. He was busy picking out gifts for Sophie Donovan. It was that very day I met that male model. He had been disfigured in an accident and was struggling to get by. I noticed he vaguely resembled Owen Greenspan's features. A desperate idea began to grow inside me. Since I couldn't have Owen's love, then I would create my own "Owen." At least this "Owen" would obey me without question. The operating room door opened. The male model, wrapped in gauze, was pushed out. The doctor said that after recovery, he would resemble Owen Greenspan by ninety percent. I stepped forward and handed him the kept contract. "Sign this, and from now on, you will be mine." He hesitated for a moment but ultimately signed. I looked at the signature on the contract, feeling no joy—only a hollow numbness. Perhaps, from today onward, my seven years with Owen Greenspan should truly come to an end.