Divorcing My Fake Poor Husband

It was our fifth wedding anniversary, and instead of a candlelit dinner, I was behind the wheel of my sedan, grinding out another shift as a rideshare driver.

The passenger door swung open, and a woman slid into the back seat. My breath hitched when I caught her reflection in the rearview mirror—underneath her designer trench coat, she was wearing absolutely nothing from the waist down.

She was shivering, her teeth chattering from the Chicago winter, but her eyes were sharp, brimming with a cruel sort of provocation. "Never seen a girl having a little fun before?" she snapped.