My President husband, Frank Gold, was known for being a cold workaholic. Before the wedding, he laid down three rules for me—his clingy, codependent fiancée: "First, maintain your independence. Do not ask me to accompany you to any social events. "Second, be sensible and obedient. No using your status as my girlfriend to guilt-trip me. Handle your own business. "Third, give each other enough space. No tantrums, no unreasonable drama." He said that enough personal space would make love last longer. I believed him. That was until I saw his Telegram account, still logged in on his computer. He had only one contact on his favorites list: his first love, Lily Jones. Lily wanted to see the Northern Lights—he cleared his entire schedule and took her to Southreach. Lily got blackout drunk at a club at three in the morning—he left me in bed to go pick her up. There were dozens of pages of chat logs. They exchanged "good morning" and "goodnight" every day. They shared everything under the sun, from meals and daily routines to deep conversations. Their flirty banter was so thick it was suffocating. So, Frank Gold wasn't cold or slow to warm up. He'd just poured all his warmth into another woman. I didn't make a scene. Instead, I sent a text to someone I hadn't contacted in three years: Gwen: I'm done being Mrs. Gold. Come get me and take me home.