Divorcing My Aloof Diplomat Husband Novel by Iris _ Novel




Divorcing My Aloof Diplomat Husband Chapter 01

In diplomatic circles, Stanley Bardow was known for being strictly professional and uncompromising. No exceptions.
We have been married for five years.
Five years—long enough for others to see clearly, and long enough for me to surrender to reality.
I was his wife, but never the one who could make him bend the rules.
At the embassy’s first New Year reception, I stood in the cold wearing an evening gown, waiting for him to take a photo with me.
In the end, his deputy appeared before me. “Mr. Bardow says your outfit isn’t appropriate for a formal event like this.”
Once, I was robbed at gunpoint while abroad. Still shaking, I called him, hoping he could help.
All I heard on the other end was the faint rustle of papers. “I’m in a meeting. Non-emergencies are not to interfere with diplomatic proceedings. You should know that. In situations like this, contact the local security force first.”
When my brother, Tyler Southden, went missing for three days while volunteering in a conflict zone, Stanley didn’t even ask about him.
I had to storm into the embassy conference room and beg him to use a satellite phone to contact the local military.
Only then did Stanley push aside the thick diplomatic brief. He looked at me. “Communications in non-recognized regions must be routed through a third country. That’s international protocol.”
I sobbed incoherently, telling him my brother was my only family. He had gone into the war zone for my sake.
All I got was a cold response from Stanley. “Don’t assume that being an ambassador’s wife entitles you to privileges.”
In the end, I pawned everything I had brought into the marriage, including the pearl bracelet my mother had left me.
After four days and nights of bribing black-market transport convoys, I finally found Tyler at a border refugee camp. By then, his right leg was already infected and rotting.
I held him as I cried uncontrollably. I should’ve been there instead of him, and I was the one who should’ve gotten hurt.
And yet—
My hand moved instinctively to my abdomen. A fragile life was growing inside me.
By the time I brought Tyler back to the embassy’s jurisdiction, he couldn’t hold on any longer. He died.
Micah Ryder, my young assistant, waited at the door. “Mrs. Bardow, the cross-border rescue permit has been approved. Where should we go now?”
I looked at him—and suddenly laughed, bending over, coughing from the force of it.
When I burst into the Consular Protection Center, Stanley was in a video conference.
He cut the signal and took off his interpreter headset. “Selina, is this a place for you to make a scene? The cross-border rescue has already been approved. Can you stop causing trouble?”
But before he could finish, a secretary rushed in with a panicked expression. “Mr. Bardow, Kaitlyn Fowler from the Office of Cultural Affairs has fainted in Montreal!”
The man who was always composed knocked over his chair as he stood.
He grabbed the encrypted satellite phone, running as he shouted, “Activate emergency protocol. Pull up my special flight route!”
I chased him all the way to the tarmac, watching as he personally helped Kaitlyn down from the aircraft.
She was sobbing. “Gosh, she’s my best friend. How could she do something like that? It’s a shame I can’t get in touch with her since we’re in separate countries. I’m so worried…”
“Don’t cry. I’ll take you to my office. You can contact her through a secure line.”
I watched them board the diplomatically marked aircraft again. The rotor wind scattered the medical files in my arms across the runway.
The papers rolled helplessly—just like me—unwanted and abandoned by Stanley.
Every international treaty and diplomatic protocol could be bent to clear an emergency path for the one he cared about.
The diplomatic residence was enormous—large enough that he could go a month without seeing me.
And yet small enough that rumors reached my ears within minutes.
I heard he had sent her a limited-edition fragrance from Paris through a diplomatic courier to calm her nerves.
I heard he stayed at the hospital all night, personally overseeing the translation of every medical order.
The hollowness in my chest started acting up again, cold air seeping in.
In truth, I had known the nature of this marriage from the very beginning.
Back then, after overseeing an evacuation during a coup, he was mocked at a press conference for being unmarried.
Senior officials later spoke to him privately, urging him to settle down and start a family.
The eligible women in the embassy district secretly rejoiced. After all, he was a rising star in diplomacy, both handsome and refined.
I was also on the list, even though my mentor had secured me an internship at the United Nations, and I was supposed to go abroad.
But during that year’s Independence Day reception, I was captivated by the way he stood beneath the national seal, delivering a speech in fluent French.
Blind dates were arranged in the embassy’s reception room.
Stanley looked up from the pile of headshots, the tip of his pen scoring a light mark on the list. “Let’s go with this one. Her name is easy to pronounce.”
Our wedding was meticulously planned.
At night, when he loosened his bow tie, he still smelled faintly of camphor from the filing cabinets.
“Selina, I need stability and order in my marriage,” he said calmly in the dark. “I’m naturally indifferent to emotions, but since we are married, I will fulfill my duties as a husband. Don’t harbor unrealistic expectations for anything else.”
Though he said that, I was full of confidence at the time.
I thought I could slowly warm his cold heart with time.
But day after day, year after year, his attitude toward me never changed.
Until one day, I saw photos from the Consular Department’s New Year’s tea party.
Stanley, proper as ever, bent down slightly to help someone pick up a fallen scarf.
In the next photo, he was smiling at its owner.
That was when I realized Stanley was capable of such a gentle smile.
From then on, a journalist named Kaitlyn Fowler appeared by his side.
Later, a diplomat’s wife told me in casual conversation that Kaitlyn was just an orphan taken in by a deceased diplomat.
No blood relation.
Then why was she allowed to use his private secure line to call an international friend?
Why could she get away with wearing evening gowns that weren’t deemed appropriate to formal receptions?
During embassy security checks, why did they skip her dorm?
I held the diplomatic code handbook to argue, but Stanley’s pen scratched across the document. “I’m just showing her some extra care. Can’t you be more considerate about it?”
Standing on the tarmac, watching the contrail fade, I remembered his words on our wedding night.
He wasn’t devoid of emotion, nor naturally cold—he had just given all his feelings to someone else.
After returning, I did two things.
First, I called my aunt, saying I was going abroad, and asked her to help with my visa.
Second, I submitted a divorce application.
While filling out the reason for divorce, I wrote: “Due to overseas relocation and intended service with Doctors Without Borders, I am no longer suitable to remain the spouse of a senior official and hereby request dissolution of the marriage.”
When the call connected, the other party said sternly, “Divorce cases involving overseas personnel require joint approval from the State Department and the Office of Personnel Management. A response is expected within forty-five working days.”
I hung up the phone, the sunset shining through the blinds of the embassy’s archive room.
The light illuminated our gold-framed wedding photo.
Stanley wore an ambassador’s sash while I held our consular-certified marriage certificate. The distance between us couldn’t fit within the frame.
I picked up a book and opened it. On the title page was Stanley’s inscription, which said, “May we always walk on the right path.”
How ironic.
He had long strayed, and now, I had taken my first step away, drifting further from him.
Soon enough, my passport would no longer bear the endorsement: spouse.

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