At first, I thought I might be overreacting. After all, there are only thirty days in a month and billions of women in the world. It wasn’t so strange that the dates coincided with my ovulation period. It could’ve been a coincidence.

But no matter how much I tried to convince myself, a growing sense of dread gnawed at me. I had to test it—just once. I had to know the truth.

And now that the ugly truth was staring me in the face, strangely, I felt calm.

“Ding.”

The account updated again.

This time, it was a screenshot of a video call. The screen showed the secretary’s pale, exposed skin and the chiseled muscles of a man’s chest and abs. The caption read:

“Late-night surprise! Boss called me on video! Look at those muscles—so sexy, right? Tomorrow in the office, I’m going to... hehehehe~”

I stared at the image, feeling cold wash over me. My hands moved without thinking, quickly taking a screenshot and saving it.

I remembered the last time I tried to video call Ethan while he was away on a business trip. How did he respond?

Oh, right. He scolded me for being an "inconsiderate housewife" who didn’t understand how precious his time was. And yet, I had confirmed with his secretary beforehand that he was resting in his hotel with no other plans. But Ethan had still been furious—so furious, in fact, that he fired that secretary for sharing his schedule with me.

I never contacted his new secretary after that. I didn’t want to risk getting someone else fired because of me.

Until today.

Today, I stumbled upon this account and now everything made sense. Ethan’s heart had strayed long ago.

I stood frozen in front of the mirror, staring at my reflection as if I didn’t recognize the woman staring back. We had known each other for ten years, been married for five and somehow, in the blink of an eye, I had become a woman he found so repulsive that he felt sick even being near me.

When did that happen? When did I become this "old fat woman" in his eyes?

I wasn’t sure how much time had passed when Ethan returned to the bedroom. There was a smug smile on his face, the kind that told me he’d just had his ego stroked.

He barely glanced at me before he said, “Tomorrow morning, I want homemade pan-fried buns. The stuff you buy outside is dirty. Get up early and make enough for two and bring it to the office.”

For two? I blinked and then the realization hit me like a punch in the gut.

He wanted me to make breakfast for him and his lover.

My husband, the man I had walked through fire for, was asking me to wake up early and make a meal for the woman he was cheating on me with.

I felt something inside me shatter, a part of me that had held on to the hope that maybe, somehow, we could fix this. But now, it was beyond repair.

I turned to face him, my voice eerily calm. “Didn’t you once say that pan-fried buns are too greasy and only for the lower class? You used to kick me out of the house if I so much as mentioned them. When did you suddenly develop a taste for them?”

Annoyance flashed across Ethan’s face and his tone immediately sharpened. “Why are you talking back? Just do as I say. You have a pretty comfortable life staying home all day. Your job is to take care of me, Emily!”

In the past, I would have trembled at his tone, rushed to apologize and done everything I could to avoid his anger. But tonight, I didn’t flinch.

Instead, I smiled—cold and detached. “Must be hard for you, dealing with me every day, this ‘old fat woman,’ as you like to call me. Ethan...” I paused, meeting his eyes directly. “Let’s get a divorce.”

The next morning, I made breakfast for one.

Ethan came down and frowned at the table, glaring at the soy milk and doughnuts I had prepared. He hated that combination, always said it was too plain for his taste. He knocked on the table impatiently.

“This is the only time I’m letting this slide,” he growled. “Don’t let it happen again.”

I didn’t say a word. Even in the past, when I’d been sick with a high fever, he would drag me out of bed to make him coffee. Now, all I did was nod silently.

He stormed out the door, but before leaving, he angrily threw a porcelain sculpture to the floor, shattering it into pieces. It was a souvenir from our honeymoon, a memory from a time when we were happy.

He was sending me a message. He could destroy everything we once held dear, just like that. And if I kept pushing him, he could do the same to our marriage.

Last night, when I had first mentioned divorce, Ethan had been stunned for only ten seconds before he recovered, scoffing at me.

“Divorce? Over breakfast? Are you out of your mind, Emily?” he spat. “Do you even know how many women would kill to be in your position right now? I’ve given you a life most people can only dream of and you have the nerve to ask for a divorce?”

He sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. “Don’t forget, you still owe me a child. Who do you think you are to demand a divorce when you can’t even give me that?”

His words were meant to hurt, to break me down as they always did. I saw the flicker of satisfaction in his eyes when he noticed my face falter. But this time, the cracks were different.

Two years ago, his father had been diagnosed with cancer. The doctors said he only had a year left to live. At the time, I was two months pregnant and that child became the hope that kept his father fighting through the treatments.

But then I lost the baby.

And after that, everything crumbled. His father’s condition deteriorated rapidly and he passed away just months later. Ethan never forgave me. He blamed me for not being able to protect our baby, for making his father die with unfulfilled regrets.

I bore his hatred silently, day after day. But he, the so-called victim, seemed to forget that no one suffered more than a mother who had lost her child.

That morning, after he left, I went to the gym and hired a personal trainer. Over the last two years, I had gained some weight while preparing for pregnancy, but I wasn’t the "old fat woman" Ethan made me out to be.

After sweating out the pain, I began to think about life after the divorce. I started updating my resume, preparing to re-enter the workforce. I couldn’t be isolated from the world any longer.

As I browsed job listings, my phone rang.

“Hello, is this Mrs. Parker? This is Mr. Parker’s secretary, Chloe. He has a dinner meeting tonight. Could you please bring his light blue Hermès tie to the restaurant? And don’t take too long.”

She hung up before I could even respond.

Chloe knew who I was, but the arrogance in her voice was unmistakable. She wasn’t trying to hide it; she wanted me to know her place in Ethan’s life. She expected me to fight, to make a scene.

But that was exactly what she wanted—to push me out of the picture.

And if that’s what she wanted, then so be it.

As soon as I stepped into the venue, I was intercepted by Ethan. His eyes darkened as he spotted me and he quickly blocked my path. His voice was low and laced with frustration as he leaned in close, ensuring no one else could hear.

“This is not a place for a housewife like you,” he hissed. “Get out before you embarrass me.”

He paused, then his expression shifted to smug arrogance as he crossed his arms over his chest. “Heh, last night you were shouting about wanting a divorce and now here you are, chasing after me. What’s the matter? Can’t bear to lose me? Realized that no one else would want you?”

His words dripped with condescension, but I didn’t flinch. Instead, I calmly looked past him and waved at the woman standing just behind him. She had been eyeing me curiously, as if sizing me up from the moment I walked in.

“Ms. Chloe?” I called out, my voice steady.

Ethan’s eyes widened slightly and he followed my gaze to his secretary. His brows furrowed as a huff of irritation escaped him. “Emily,” he snapped, “you’re still going behind my back to contact my secretary? Are you trying to get her fired too, like the last one?”

I held up the paper bag I had brought with me and extended it toward Chloe. “Fired?” I raised an eyebrow at Ethan. “Are you really willing to let her go?”

His expression faltered for a brief moment, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face. “W-Why would you think that?” he stammered, clearly caught off guard.

Meanwhile, Chloe had taken the bag from me and was pulling out the silk tie I had brought. She held it up against her light blue dress and then pouted playfully at Ethan. “Mr. Parker, you didn’t send me a photo of your outfit this morning. I wasn’t able to coordinate our outfits like usual. That’s why I asked Mrs. Parker to bring the tie. See? It matches perfectly.”

Her tone was flirtatious and bold and I could see the way she reveled in the tension between Ethan and me. She wasn’t hiding her intentions at all—because Ethan had given her the confidence to act this way.

Ethan shot me a quick glance, clearly expecting a reaction. But when he saw my calm, unaffected expression, he looked almost confused.

Unfazed, he reached out and took Chloe’s hand, guiding it to his neck. “Come on,” he said smoothly, “you tie it for me. You know how I like the cross knot. Not like her,” he added with a dismissive wave in my direction, “who only knows how to tie that old-fashioned Windsor knot. She’s just as boring as her knots.”

Chloe’s face lit up with pride and she practically preened. In front of everyone, she boldly hooked her fingers around the tie and yanked Ethan toward her. Their faces were so close that their noses nearly touched and I could see the heat between them as their breaths mingled.

As I watched the scene play out, I felt a sense of detachment wash over me. Half a year ago, I remembered Ethan suddenly started taking photos every morning after he got dressed. At the time, I hadn’t thought much of it. I assumed he was just proud of his appearance.

But now I realized the truth—he had been sending those photos to Chloe, making sure their outfits were coordinated, like a matching couple. And the most absurd part? I had been the one carefully picking out his clothes every night, thinking I was helping him put his best foot forward.

It was revolting. Absolutely revolting.

Taking a deep breath, I reached into my purse, pulled out a small key and held it out to Chloe.

Her eyes widened and her face flushed with excitement. She stared at the key like it was a winning lottery ticket.

“Ms. Chloe,” I said, my voice cold but polite, “this is the key to the front door of our house. From now on, you can come directly to the house to help Ethan pick out his clothes. And while you're there, you can check if the decor is to your liking. Once we finalize the divorce, feel free to move in.”

Chloe’s face froze, the excitement draining away in an instant. She blinked, stunned, clearly not expecting that turn of events.

The next second, she looked at my husband.