Burn This Marriage To The Ground Novel by WriterLola

Burn This Marriage To The Ground Chapter 01

“Mrs. Delgado, here is the divorce agreement from the safe.”

On Willette Fraley and Maxwell Delgado’s fifth wedding anniversary, his secretary presented the document to her in an upscale restaurant.

Five years ago, Willette and Maxwell had married.

On the day they registered their marriage, to prove his devotion, Maxwell had drafted this agreement, signed it, and placed it in the safe.

Its terms were simple—if he were ever unfaithful, Willette could sign it and divorce him at any time.

Now, Willette signed the papers without hesitation.

Her gaze fell upon the empty seat across from her, her eyes dimming. “Deliver this to my lawyer, Mr. Keller. Then, book a hotel banquet hall and have it arranged for the wedding in advance.”

The secretary was taken aback. “What names should I list for the bride and groom?”

“Maxwell Delgado and Sharon Pascall,” Willette stated flatly.

The secretary fell silent for a moment.

Sharon was Maxwell’s first love.

“Mrs. Delgado,” she ventured, her voice trembling slightly, “when should the wedding be scheduled?”

Willette turned slowly to the window.

Outside, the blue fireworks display—which had lasted a full hour—was finally concluding, leaving a single line of words etched against the sky.

“Maxwell and Willette, Happy Fifth Anniversary.”

She withdrew her gaze, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Schedule the wedding for seven days from now. And book me a ticket to Norway for the same day.”

“Norway?” The secretary was stunned once more.

She hesitated, then advised, “Mrs. Delgado, perhaps … you’d like to reconsider?”

Five years ago, the divorce agreement hadn’t been the only document Maxwell signed.

Willette’s parents, who resided in Norway, had refused his multi-million-dollar wedding gift. Instead, they had him sign a prenuptial agreement.

It stipulated that if Willette ever returned to Norway alone, heartbroken from the marriage, Maxwell would be permanently barred from entering the country.

He would lose any chance to beg for her forgiveness.

“No need.”

Willette shook her head.

Seven days later would be her birthday.

She would leave Maxwell, return to Norway, and make the arrangements for his wedding to Sharon.

After the secretary left, Willette’s phone chimed.

A new message flashed on the screen.

Maxwell had used the company’s official Twitter account to post a high-profile photo of the blooming blue fireworks.

He had tagged her with the caption, “To my love, happy fifth anniversary. I will love you forever.”

Within a minute, comments flooded in, surpassing 999.

Netizen A: “So jealous! So, that’s why there was an hour-long blue fireworks show over Los Angeles tonight. Turns out Mr. Delgado arranged it for Mrs. Delgado!”

Netizen B: “They’ve been married five years, and he still declares his love for her so publicly every single year.”

Netizen C: “I heard that after his surgery, when he was still groggy from anesthesia, the first thing he did was ask if she’d eaten lunch on time. He remembered her sensitive stomach even in that state. The nurses said they were moved to tears.”

Amid the flood of envious comments, Maxwell replied only to this one: “Willa is my wife. Loving her, cherishing her, and shielding her from all harm is my privilege and my duty.”

His response instantly stirred another wave of reactions—a mix of admiration and envy from those lamenting they’d never find such a perfect man themselves.

Willette, the object of this universal envy, was now sitting while staring expressionlessly at the empty seat across from her.

The truth was, she and Maxwell had once shared a profound love.

In seven years together, they had never fought.

For seven years, Maxwell had given her everything—wealth, status, and unwavering affection.

But a month ago, one night during his business trip, Willette had come to know he had been unfaithful to her.

He had sent her a voice message that night.

When she played it, an unfamiliar woman’s voice came through.

“Six months since I got back, and all I had to do was beckon—and he was there.

“He prepared blue fireworks for me. But I hate blue. Oh well, no sense letting them go to waste, right? You can have them for your anniversary.”

Back then, Willette didn’t know who the woman was.

The revelation came two weeks later at a party. Maxwell entered a private room with a woman.

He introduced her to Willette as Sharon Pascall, a “distant cousin”.

With a bright smile on her delicate face, Sharon greeted her, “Hi, Willette. I’ve been back for over six months. Finally, I get to meet you.”

That delicate, now-familiar voice sent Willette’s mind reeling. She couldn’t bear it and left early.

Later, Maxwell stumbled home around midnight, drunk. Shortly after, a text arrived from an unknown number.

“Tonight on the terrace was wild. I completely lost control—left scratch marks all over Max.

“Got to admit, he’s as fierce as ever. And that rear… it’s got sparks flying.”

Willette looked at Maxwell, collapsed on the bed in a drunken stupor. Two of his shirt buttons were undone, revealing a chest covered in fresh scratches.

The white shirt he wore was the men’s piece from the matching set she had custom-made for their anniversary last year.

Embroidered on the collar was the word she had stitched herself—”Husband”.

She remembered the night she gave him that shirt. He had taken her hands, deeply moved, and promised, “Willa, I’ll wear this every day. It will remind me to keep my distance from other women. For you, I will be the perfect husband. I will never let you down.”

But now, smeared across that very word, was a bright smear of lipstick.

Today was their fifth anniversary.

Willette had arrived at the restaurant first. After five minutes, Maxwell called.

He said he was preparing a surprise and would be late for their candlelit dinner, urging her to enjoy the fireworks first.

He hung up. Two minutes later, a WhatsApp photo arrived.

She opened it to see Maxwell sharing an intimate candlelit dinner with Sharon.

Flowers and wine adorned the table, the atmosphere undeniably romantic.

Willette could only assume the grand, public Tweet had been sent while he was nestled in Sharon’s arms.

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