My husband had spent ten years restoring art. Then, for the first time, someone asked him to restore a woman's private parts.

He'd laughed out of sheer disbelief and ripped into his assistant for two solid hours.

I assumed it was a prank. Didn't think twice about it.

But a few days later, while helping him organize his files, I found a stack of private photos—the woman's so-called restoration site.

Filthy. Every single one.

My hands wouldn't stop shaking. I rushed downstairs, ready to confront him.

Instead, I overheard him chatting with a friend.

"She said I was too big. Before, when I'd... she kept insisting on getting it restored."

"I said no, but she threatened to go find a male doctor. You know how it is—divorced or not, I'm not letting another man put his hands on her down there."

I forgot how to breathe.

——

Lambert Harding really was that big.

Big enough that I'd had to get surgery just so my body could handle him.

When I found out a male surgeon would be performing it, I wanted to crawl into a hole and disappear.

Lambert hadn't minded at all back then. He'd just pressed his mouth to my ear, smirking, blowing on my skin on purpose. "Be good, Ellie. Once the surgery's done, it won't hurt anymore. I promise you'll love it so much you can't stand it..."

Now, that same fierce possessiveness directed at another woman landed like a slap across my face.

I turned away slowly, as though every drop of strength had been wrung out of me.

The friend's voice carried through the study door.

"Look, don't get pissed at me for saying it ugly, but you've been divorced for years. A girl like Lydia? You couldn't count the guys she's been through on one hand. Who even knows who wore her out—coming to you for 'restoration' is just an excuse to get back in your—"

Lambert's voice dropped low and sharp. "No."

He paused for two seconds before continuing. "She's obsessive about who touches her. Won't let anyone near her except me. So no—there's no one else."

The urgency with which he defended her left his friend speechless.

I tugged at the corner of my mouth in a bitter almost-smile.

So a woman who got her kicks sleeping with male models was supposedly too precious to let anyone else touch her.

That night, when Lambert went to shower, I picked up his phone for the first time.

Fingerprint unlock. On WeChat, only one conversation was pinned to the top.

One glance and I recognized the profile picture. Lydia Fox.

My fingers trembled as I tapped in.

The messages were naked, filthy, wall-to-wall sex.

Lydia had told him her breasts had gotten bigger, that she could wrap them around all of him now.

She'd asked if he missed the feeling of being buried inside her.

Photo after photo, sent casually, carelessly.

Every single one impossible to look at directly.

I gagged and couldn't stop, nausea ripping through me like my whole body was trying to turn itself inside out.

Lambert came out of the shower. His gaze locked on the lit screen, the open conversation. Shock first, then a flicker of guilt behind his eyes.

A few seconds of silence. He was the one who broke it.

"I never replied to her. Those photos... I never opened them."

Pain hit my chest like a whip cracking across raw skin, so sudden I couldn't breathe.

My eyes drifted back to the glowing screen.

He was right that he'd never replied. Hundreds of messages, and every single one was Lydia's alone, one-sided provocation after provocation.

But every last one of those explicit photos had been saved—all of them—in his locked private album.

I'd noticed that album before. I'd even asked him about it once, curious.

He'd told me it was priceless artwork, pieces that hadn't gone public yet.

So the priceless artwork he'd been hiding was another woman.

I was shaking so hard I could barely stand. In the long silence that followed, I finally forced out the question I'd been too afraid to face. "Do you regret it? Regret leaving her... Do you still love her?"

Our eyes met. His gaze dodged mine for just a second before he let out a quiet sigh.

"Ellie, I don't like it when you act like you can't trust me."

The suffocation rose from somewhere deep in my chest and locked my throat. I couldn't get a single word out.

Lydia Fox's call shattered the silence without warning.

"Lambert, I went and got everything freshened up down there just for you today. Pink, soft, feels amazing. You don't come over, I'm calling another male doctor to do it instead!"

Her voice was demanding, laced with a flirtatious purr.

Lambert's brow knotted. He held my gaze for a moment, then hung up and walked into his study, forcing calm into every step.

A few minutes later, he snatched his coat off the sofa.

"Ellie, believe me. It's just work."

He left without looking back.

So rushed he forgot his phone.

I stood frozen where he'd left me, as if something inside me had short-circuited.

After a long while, I picked up his phone and made myself read through every message between them.

All those blurred, half-remembered nights suddenly snapped into focus against the chat history.

No wonder he always covered my eyes when he lost control.

All that hunger, the kind that felt like he wanted to crush me into his body—none of it had been for me. Every bit of it was spent on Lydia's explicit photos.

The nausea hit so hard I barely made it to the bathroom before I was throwing up.

I threw up until my body was wrung out and empty, and when I finally stopped, what was left wasn't sadness. It was bitter, bone-deep refusal to accept it.

If it was just work, then fine. Let him work it to the end.

I took Lambert's phone, opened his account, and posted those explicit chat logs, screenshot by screenshot.

Then I changed his bio: I'm Lambert Harding. Starting today, taking unlimited appointments for women's intimate restoration. No cap.

When I was done, I sat back against the sofa and waited.

It didn't take long. Lydia called. Video.

I'd expected Lambert's fury on the other end. But when the call connected, all I saw was a dim room and a faint, rhythmic swaying on the screen.

Lambert stood in front of her. His Adam's apple worked up and down. His face was dark.

Lydia's body shook slightly.

"Mm... Lambert..."

The image pitched and swayed, and her voice turned smug.

"You like that, don't you? You've wanted this all along—that's why you came running the second I called..."

"Feels good, doesn't it? I know how to make you beg for more way better than she—"

Lambert hissed at her to shut up, but Lydia wouldn't stop, and in seconds the argument collapsed into a kiss.

"Mm... I can't take it..."

"Don't stop..."

After what felt like an eternity, Lambert pulled his hand back.

"Next time."

His voice was still unsteady, threaded with a self-satisfied smile.

"I've got something tonight. Past midnight it's my anniversary with Ellie. You know how it is—she's got me whipped."

"Seriously? Lambert, are you even a man? You can stop just like that? What, you can't even get it—"

More bickering. Then another drawn-out kiss.

I ended the call.

Something inside my chest shattered, and the pain tore through me so hard my whole body wouldn't stop shaking.

Two years ago, when I first stumbled onto the fact that Lambert had been married before, that deception, that sick, lurching uncertainty, had made me cry until I threw up. I thought that was the worst it could ever get.

Reality had one more cruelty left. There had only ever been one woman in his heart.

I was just a fool who believed she was loved.

Lambert didn't come home all night. I sat awake until morning.

At dawn, I opened the gift box, picked up the pregnancy test—two lines, positive—and gathered my documents and went to the hospital.

I'd planned to surprise him on our anniversary.

Now there was no need.

Before the procedure, I called Lydia's number.

Half hoping Lambert would pick up. Half hoping he wouldn't.

A long stretch of ringing, then the call cut off. Lydia sent a video instead.

The man who had always been precious about his hands, who never set foot in a kitchen, was in hers, carefully making her breakfast.

The two of them bickered over how many minutes to steam the soup dumplings.

Then the argument dissolved into a kiss.

"Mm… Lambert! Kissing me won't shut me up. Maybe try putting that energy below the waist next time!"

A short clip. I watched it three times.

Then I turned off my phone.

When I got home after the procedure, the shower of flower petals at the door startled me.

"Ellie, happy second anniversary!"

Lambert slid his arm gently around my waist and produced a gift he'd clearly put thought into.

"Marrying you is the happiest thing that's ever happened to me. See if you like it?"

My gaze landed on his neck.

A flicker of unease crossed his face, and he reached up to tug his collar higher.

Beneath the collar was a vivid love bite.

"Got bitten by a mosquito at the office last night. It's nothing, don't worry."

By the time I came back to myself, he'd already fastened the necklace around my throat.

His fingertips had just traced my collarbone, and they still reeked—that sticky, rancid musk of someone else's skin.

I forced the nausea down, picked up his phone, and held it out to him.

"Happy anniversary, Lambert. Your gift is on here."

"Open it. You might like it."

He looked puzzled for a second, then took the phone.

The moment the screen lit up, notifications flooded in. When he saw what they were, his anger spiked white-hot in an instant.

"Ellie, have you lost your mind?!"

"You put those chat logs online—what the hell is wrong with you? Do you have any idea what this is going to do to Lydia?"

"All this over one work project? You'd really pull something this disgusting?!"

Lambert's brow was knotted tight, and the look he gave me was pure disappointment.

"I told you it was just work. She and I are divorced, there's nothing between us. You can't even give me the most basic trust? Is that how pathetic I am in your eyes?"

I couldn't help it. I laughed.

Vaginal restoration as a cover to fuck another woman, and he still had the nerve to question me.

So righteous. So pathetic.

His face darkened another shade.

Before I could say anything, Lydia appeared at the door, tears streaking her face, walked straight in, and dropped to her knees in front of me.

"Yes, I love Lambert! I loved him with nothing to hide. But he still chose you—you already won, Ellie. So why are you doing this to me? Do you want me dead?"

"Fine! I shouldn't have loved him. I'm cheap. I deserve to die. Here—I'm on my knees. Is that enough for you?"

The moment her words landed, Lambert looked at me like he wanted to kill me.

"Ellie, I never thought you'd turn out to be this stupid and this cruel. I honestly—"

I cut him off, my voice steady. "I am stupid. Stupid enough to be played like a fool. So let's get a divorce."

He went blank for a beat.

Then fury and humiliation fused together, and he grabbed my arm and wrenched me off the sofa.

My abdomen—still raw from the procedure—cracked against the table edge. Pain blacked out my vision and I gasped, breath after ragged breath.

The flash of concern in his eyes vanished as quickly as it came.

Seeing her moment, Lydia choked out through tears, "You've been sending me anonymous messages for weeks, humiliating me—I took all of it. And now you post the chat logs for the whole internet to see, let them dox me, drag me through the mud—just because Lambert and I loved each other once, you can't even stand me existing?"