In the fourth year of our marriage, my husband cheated on me.

I held his shirt in my hands, plucking off a strand of deep burgundy curly hair that carried a faint, alluring fragrance. Of course, this alone didn’t prove anything—after all, as a general manager, his social engagements were often complicated.

But I couldn’t let it go. My eyelid kept twitching, an incessant, nerve-wracking sign that something was wrong.

Just then, my daughter waddled over on her little legs, announcing she needed to pee. I carried her to the toilet, steadied my thoughts, and told myself not to overthink.

In the middle of the night, I couldn’t sleep.

Owen lay peacefully beside me, one strong arm draped across my waist. I gazed at him quietly, tracing his features in my mind—the sharp brows, the starry eyes, the high-bridged nose, and the thin lips. After two years of dating and four years of marriage, I knew his face so well that I could sketch it in the dark.

Back then, many people envied me, thinking I’d struck gold—a real-life Cinderella story, where the prince not only fell in love with her but also married her into a wealthy family.

The glow of a phone screen interrupted my thoughts. It was Owen’s phone.

On impulse, I picked it up, just in time to see an unlocked message pop up:

[Are you awake? I miss you.]

The phone slipped from my hand. I felt like I’d been struck by lightning.

The next day, I was a wreck, so when I went to Owen's company I didn’t even drive, instead, I hailed a taxi.

The receptionists knew me, so they didn’t stop me as I headed upstairs. When I pushed open the door to Owen’s office, he was talking to a female employee.

When he saw me, he raised an eyebrow and winked playfully.

I forced a smile and stood aside, waiting for their conversation to end.

As the woman left, she nodded at me in greeting. Her burgundy curls swayed, and the air filled with a blend of sandalwood and vanilla perfume.

My heart clenched as I stared at her retreating figure.

Before I could think further, Owen had wrapped his arms around me.

“Alicia, what are you looking at?” he asked.

I lowered my eyes and said casually, “Your company uniforms are quite bold.”

The woman had been wearing a black suit—the standard uniform. But with her ample chest and slender waist, she made it look strikingly provocative.

Owen stood behind me, so I couldn’t see his expression, but I imagined his brows furrowing.

“Really?” he asked.

I turned to meet his gaze with a faint, mocking smile. “You must be used to it, President Stokes.”

At that moment, I saw a flicker of emotion passed through his eyes.

He lowered his head to kiss me, scattering papers and documents everywhere.

I knew he still loved me, yet I couldn’t stop my thoughts from spiraling. The idea of him holding another woman the way he held me made me sick to my stomach.

That evening, he came home late. I threw away all the food I’d cooked.

He looked exhausted, reeking of alcohol, and collapsed onto the sofa. For a moment, I felt sorry for him.

As the only son of the Stokes family, he had defied his family to be with me, choosing to move out so we could live freely. He did love me.

I wrung out a towel to wipe his face. He grabbed my wrist and made me sit beside him.

“Ali, I love you,” he said.

On any other day, I would’ve responded, wrapping my arms around his neck and saying, “I love you too, Owen.” But I didn’t this time.

That lingering scent of perfume haunted me.

That night, I came down with a fever.

Owen was frantic, driving me to the hospital. While he was handling the admission paperwork, he left his phone beside me.

The message popped up again.

[Are you awake? I miss you.]

My body was weak from illness, but my mind was burning with rage.

I picked up Owen’s phone.

His passcode used to be the date of our wedding. Taking a deep breath, I entered it.

But to my surprise, it didn’t unlock.

It felt like a bucket of ice water had been poured over me. He had changed his password!

I put the phone back down and closed my eyes, utterly drained.

After a bout of illness, I had lost four or five pounds. Looking at my noticeably smaller chest in the mirror, I couldn’t help but laugh bitterly.

Images of that woman in her uniform flashed through my mind—she was probably a D-cup, wasn’t she?

On Friday evening, my sister invited me to visit our parents. Owen was too busy to join.

He looked at me apologetically. “I’ll have the driver take you. Let me know when to pick you up.”

Annoyance flared up in me. “No need, I’ll just take a cab.”

My parents had worked for an old state-owned enterprise. My mother was now retired, while my father was still holding on to his post. Both my sister and brother-in-law worked at Owen’s company.

I had married Owen right after graduating college and had since become a full-time housewife with no accomplishments to my name.

By the time I returned home that night, it was past 9 pm. My daughter, Allison, was so sleepy she could barely keep her eyes open. Owen still hadn’t called.

My brother-in-law dropped me off. On the way, my sister chattered endlessly, asking me to put in a good word with Owen so her husband could get promoted to department manager.

I brushed her off with vague responses but didn’t plan to mention it.

My brother-in-law had some minor smarts, sure—but being a small team leader better suited him. Managing an entire department? He wasn’t cut out for it. I didn’t want to put Owen in a difficult position. After all, the company wasn’t solely his.

When I got home, Owen wasn’t back yet. I went to bed without waiting.

But in the middle of the night, I woke up to find the space beside me empty.

It felt as if a powerful hand had gripped my heart, squeezing the breath out of me.

He hadn’t come home... He actually didn't come back!

This almost never happened after we got married. No matter how late he worked or how far he traveled, he would always come back.

The memory of that strand of hair and the scent of perfume clawed at my mind. It felt like tiny insects were gnawing at my heart—I couldn’t stay still for even a minute longer.

I stumbled out of bed and bolted to the door, only to trip and fall to the ground.

Startled, Owen’s voice called out. He sat up from the couch, looking at me in surprise.

I must have looked awful—wild-haired and disheveled, like some feral creature.

He came over and scooped me up. “Alicia, what’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

I clung tightly to his shirt, trembling all over.

He placed me gently on the couch and brought over a cup of warm water. “What’s going on? Are you feeling unwell?”

Tears blurred my vision as I stared at him. It took me a long moment to choke out, “Why are you here?”

He sighed. “I drank too much. I didn’t want to disturb your sleep by coming into the bedroom.”

I suddenly threw myself into his arms. “Owen, I’m scared when you’re not by my side.”

He stroked my hair, his voice filled with indulgence. “I know. My little Alicia is such a scaredy-cat. I’ll protect you forever.”

Forever? Was he lying to me?

But I didn’t have the courage to confront him.

His phone lit up again.

Seeing me glaring at it, he chuckled, didn’t check it, and turned it off instead.

On the following days, Owen came home on time every evening, eating dinner with us and playing with our daughter afterward. That Instagram message never appeared again.

Watching him and Allison’s faces squished together in laughter, I began to doubt myself. Was I overthinking everything?

But my fragile sense of peace lasted less than two days.

That night, a heavy rainstorm rolled in, complete with thunder and lightning.

After putting my daughter to bed, I stepped out of the bedroom to find Owen on the balcony, smoking a cigarette as he spoke on the phone.

His expression was shadowed, unreadable in the dim light.

I thought Owen might be dealing with a work issue, so I approached him, ready to comfort him.

But as soon as he saw me, he said into the phone, “Alright, wait for me. I’ll be there soon.”

I frowned. “You’re going out? In this rain?”

He nodded. “Yes, there’s an issue at the company I need to handle.”

My heart clenched. “What kind of issue could be so urgent?”

“It’s important—something to do with the bid proposal,” Owen explained.

He didn’t elaborate, and even if he did, I wouldn’t have understood.

Still, I insisted, “I’ll come with you. The rain’s too heavy—it’s not safe.”

A flicker of guilt passed through his eyes before he quickly shook his head. “No need. Stay home and take care of Allison. I’ll be back soon.”

Watching him leave, I couldn’t sit still. Grabbing my car keys, I followed him.

The storm was fierce, with wind and rain lashing against my car. Owen drove cautiously, so it wasn’t hard to stay on his trail. Fortunately, he didn't notice me.

With my mind in turmoil, I forgot to feel scared, focusing solely on the taillights of his car ahead.

After about twenty minutes, his car pulled into the parking lot of the Royal Banner Hotel.

I parked a little behind him and watched as he stepped into the elevator, pressing a floor number before the doors closed. My heart pounded as I stepped into another elevator, unsure if I’d even be able to find him when I got out.

But when the doors opened, I froze.

There he was, passionately kissing a woman. His large hands gripped her waist, pulling her close with urgency and intensity.

The door to the hotel room finally opened, and the two of them stumbled inside, still entangled.

I moved closer, my trembling hands picking up the keycard they had dropped in their haste.

They were like starving animals, devouring each other as if they hadn’t eaten in years.

Standing outside the door, I swiped the keycard shaking hands.

The room was dark, but the moment the door opened, the lights turned on, flooding the space with brightness.

Startled, the two of them froze on the sofa, turning to look at me.

I knew I must have looked terrible—soaked from the rain, my face pale and ghastly pale.

Owen took several seconds to recover, frantically pushing the woman away from him.

I recognized her immediately—it was the busty woman from his office.

Unlike Owen, she didn’t panic. Instead, she looked at me with a smug, provocative smirk.

At that moment, I wanted to cry. But instead, I laughed.

I wanted to storm in and tear her face apart. But instead, I fled, like a guilty party caught in the act, as if I was the one who had been unfaithful.

I heard Owen calling my name, but his voice felt distant, like it wasn’t reaching me.

Once in my car, I wiped the raindrops on my face. Who am I? Where am I? What am I even doing?

Then, in a flash of lightning, I sped onto the road.

I’d always heard in movies that before they die, their life flashes before their eyes. But as I raced through the storm, my mind was blank—I didn’t have time to think of anything.

I didn’t die, though.

They said Owen chased after me and pulled me from the wreckage of my mangled car, his hands covered in blood.

Now, lying in the hospital bed, visitors came and went in an endless stream.

My sister scolded me, “What’s wrong with you? Running out in the rain to watch a movie with Owen? Are you out of your mind?”

Is that what Owen told her? How amusing.

Since I woke up, I hadn’t spoken a word to him.

After a few minutes, my sister left, and silence returned to the room.

Then Owen walked in, carrying a container of porridge.

I watched him awkwardly pour it into a bowl, even more awkwardly trying to feed me. His clumsy actions made me scoff.

“Owen, let’s get a divorce,” I intoned coldly.

He froze for a moment, then acted as if he hadn’t heard me. “Eat something first. We can talk about the rest later.”

I sneered and knocked the bowl of porridge out of his hand.

"How long has it been?" I asked coldly.

Owen lowered his head like a guilty child. "Not long. This was the third time."

The third time.

During my surgery, I’d naively thought: if it had been a one-time mistake—a drunken lapse—maybe I could forgive him. But now I realized how foolish I had been. This wasn’t a momentary weakness; it was a pattern.

The thought of it made me feel physically sick.

I wasn’t obsessed with cleanliness, but I couldn’t tolerate a relationship sullied like this.

"Alicia, I was wrong," he whispered.

I shook him off with all my strength, pulling the IV needle from my hand in the process.

Blood dripped from my hand, and the wound from my surgery had reopened, but I felt no physical pain. The emotional agony was so much worse.

Curling into a ball under the blanket, I sobbed uncontrollably. Owen didn’t dare touch me; he called a nurse to treat my wounds instead.

Owen had always been handsome—just over thirty, exuding charm and masculinity.

Before, looking at his face filled me with pride and affection. Now, all I felt was disgust.

“Be good, it won’t hurt anymore,” he murmured as he gently blew on my wound, his eyes glistening with emotion, trying to win me over.

I turned away, avoiding his gaze.

“Go pick up Allison,” I said flatly. I couldn’t stand the sight of him and just wanted him gone.

Seeing that I had finally spoken to him, his eyes lit up with relief. He leaned down to kiss my forehead before leaving.

The warmth of his lips lingered on my skin, but it only made me feel filthy.

I lay there in turmoil, my thoughts chaotic.

A few moments later, someone walked in from outside.

Long curly hair, a face like a social media influencer, and a curvy, statuesque figure wrapped in a tight business suit. It was her—the woman Owen had been cheating with.

Her name was Viviana, the HR manager at Owen’s company.

When did mistresses become so brazen? She had the audacity to show up at my hospital room, flaunting her triumph.

I stared at her, silent.

She carried a brand-new Louis Vuitton handbag, clearly uninterested in staying longer. Standing just next to the door, she looked down at me with disdain.

“I assume you already know who I am,” she said, her tone dripping with arrogance, as if she were the rightful wife.

Was this confidence purely from money? I knew her family owned a car dealership, and she had a well-connected uncle in government.

Did that give her the courage to demand I step aside for her?

“And who are you?” I asked flatly.

Her smug face twisted in irritation, clearly not expecting my calm and dismissive response.

She stepped closer. “I’m Viviana. Owen’s... lover.”

I almost laughed out loud. Lover? She had the audacity to use such a romantic term. Did she even understand what it meant?

“Alicia, I’m not here to waste time. Leave Owen, and I’ll give you one million dollars.”

I chuckled. “Then I’ll give you two million to leave Owen.”

She hadn’t expected me to push back. Clearly, she thought I was just a pitiful little housewife.

Sneering, she curled her red lips. “What a joke. All your money comes from Owen.”

I smiled faintly. “We’re still married.”

My tone was calm, but inside, my heart ached bitterly. Only the marriage certificate was left between Owen and me.

“Miss Smith, you want me to divorce Owen?” I asked, feigning curiosity.

She narrowed her eyes, obviously wary.

“But what if he doesn’t want a divorce?” I continued. “Maybe you should take some photos or videos the next time you’re in bed with him. Show me those, and I might finally give up.”

She froze, her face contorted in fury.

“You shameless woman!” she spat before storming out of the room.

Once she was gone, I lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.