I pulled out my phone and searched for “Grandview Group”.

The first result was the corporate website. I tapped in, and right there on the homepage was a photograph.

Robert stood at the center of a group of men in tailored suits, wearing a deep navy custom-fitted one himself, his hair combed back without a strand out of place.

His face was angled slightly to the side, a faint smile on his lips.

The portrait of a successful man.

That expression was nothing like the bleary-eyed, stubble-covered man I'd seen before I left the house this morning. They could have been two different people.

I scrolled down.

Grandview Group. Core operations spanning real estate, finance, and cultural investment. Annual revenue exceeding $150 million.

Robert Gilbert, founder and chairman, named to multiple "30 Under 40" lists for young entrepreneurs.

I searched for “Valerie Henson” next.

A flood of retouched photos filled the screen.

Her Instagram bio read “Fashion Blogger” and “Lifestyle Creator”, with over a million followers.

Her latest post had gone up three minutes ago. The photo showed a hand gripping a Porsche steering wheel, the road south of the city stretching out through the windshield.

The caption read：“Great mood today. Took the car out for a spin and met an interesting lady.”

Back home, I sat on the worn fabric couch and stared at nothing for a long time.

The living room was small. The coffee table was something Robert had picked up from a secondhand market; one corner sagged, propped up with a folded newspaper.

The TV was a thirty-two-inch off-brand he'd bought years ago. It took half a minute to boot up.

The wedding photo on the wall had faded.

We hadn't had money back then, so we'd gone to a tiny portrait studio. The backdrop was a wrinkled sheet of fake scenery.

In the photo I was wearing a gown the studio provided. It was several sizes too big, clipped together in the back with binder clips.

Robert wore a white suit, his eyes crinkling with his smile, one arm around my waist.

He'd said to me then：“Summer, I promise I'll give you a good life someday.”

I believed him.

Now, looking at that photo again, his smile compared to the one on the corporate website was nothing short of a cruel joke.

A thought crept in. Back then, in that cramped rental in the old part of town, when he held me and said those things, had he meant any of it? Or had the whole thing been an act from the very beginning?

I couldn't figure it out. I didn't want to anymore.

A little after eleven that night, footsteps echoed in the stairwell.

Not heavy, not light, dragging slightly, as if whoever it was could barely keep going.

I'd listened to those footsteps for seven years and never once questioned them.

The door opened. Robert walked in wearing the same dusty old jacket he'd had on when he left that morning.

He spotted me sitting on the couch and visibly paused.

“Why are you still up?”

I didn't move. I hadn't turned on any other lights, just sat there in the dim glow, watching him.

“Couldn't sleep.”

“Robert, there are some things I want to talk to you about.”

He tossed his briefcase onto the shoe cabinet without looking, bent down to change his shoes, and didn't even lift his head：

“What's your problem now? I've been running around on a business trip all day. I'm dead tired. You think I have time to sit here and chat?”

“Where was this business trip?”

“I already told you. The next city over.” He straightened up, frowning at me. “I have to be up early tomorrow to catch a train. Can you be reasonable for once?”

Be reasonable.

I'd been hearing those two words for seven years.

He'd come home late from overtime. I'd tell him to ease up on the coffee because it was bad for his stomach. He'd say, can you be reasonable? I'm killing myself out there and it's all for this family.

He wouldn't come home on weekends. I'd call to ask where he was. He'd say, can you be reasonable? Networking is how I bring in more money.

He wouldn't touch me for months. I'd move closer to him in bed, and he'd roll over. Can you be reasonable? I'm really, truly exhausted.

I'd been reasonable for seven years.

And what I got in return was him keeping a young, pretty girlfriend on the side, showering her with jewelry every few months.

Robert watched me say nothing. He grabbed a change of clothes from the closet and went into the bathroom.

When the water started running, I stood up and walked to the shoe cabinet by the door.

His briefcase was sitting there. Black leather, corners worn white.

All this time, I'd believed he carried that bag onto the subway every morning, heading to his little office job at some company called “Houda Tech.”

There were two phones inside.

One was his everyday phone. The lock screen was our wedding photo, and the passcode was my birthday.

The other was black, thinner, screen-down at the bottom of the bag.

I picked it up and pressed the power button.

The screen lit up. Password required.

I tried his birthday first. Wrong.

Then our anniversary. Wrong again.

I paused. Valerie's face flashed through my mind, then her Instagram bio.

Her profile listed her birthday：March 12th.

I typed it in.

.

The screen unlocked.

My hands started shaking. Not from the cold. Because that passcode told me something more bluntly than anything else could.

The most important place in his life had been given to someone else a long time ago.

The messaging app had a red notification bubble. I tapped it. The first pinned conversation was labeled “Val.”

I opened it.

“Babe, I accidentally clipped some lady on an electric scooter today. Poor thing looked rough.”

“She okay?”

“Yeah, just a scrape. I told her to come by your office tomorrow to pick up some cash. Just give her ten, fifteen grand, whatever.”

“Fine. Handle it however you want.”

“Babe, do you think I'll end up like that someday? All dull and washed out, can't even bother with lipstick, looking ten years older than she actually is. I'm so scared of turning into one of those women.”

“Stop overthinking it. I'll wire you $150,000 later. Spend it on whatever you want. Spa, shopping, all of it.”

The ache hit me again. In seven years of marriage, I'd barely touched a single piece of makeup.

Last month my face was so dry it was cracking, and I'd begged Robert to buy me some sheet masks.

He'd grudgingly ordered some off a bargain site. The cheapest ones they had, less than fifty cents each.

And told me to use them sparingly. Said they were too expensive.

I scrolled further up. More records flooded the screen.

Last Valentine's Day, he'd wired her $75,000. The memo read “Happy Valentine's Day.”

That same day, he told me the company was doing poorly, bonuses had been cut, and asked if I could get by on $500 less for the month.

Last New Year's, he took her to Miami. They stayed in an $11,000-a-night oceanview suite.

He'd told me the company needed him to work the holiday shift. Told me to go spend it at my parents' place.

The year before that, for her birthday, he bought her a BMW. Over $130,000 after tax and registration.

That day he told me his father's illness had flared up again and he needed another $50,000.

So I handed over every cent I'd saved for the better part of a year.

Message after message. Each one a blade, sinking deeper.

What gutted me wasn't the affair. It was that while he was cheating, he was also bleeding me dry.

The water stopped.

I put the briefcase back exactly where it was, sat down on the couch, and slipped the phone into my pocket.

The bathroom door opened. Robert walked out in those faded old shorts, toweling his hair. He glanced at me.

“You're not in bed yet?”

“Going now.”

He grunted, draped the towel over the back of a chair, walked to the bed, pulled the covers back, and lay down.

Within two minutes, he was snoring.

He really was tired.

But not from business trips. He was exhausted from spending himself on another woman.

I sat in the dark for a long time. Once I was sure he was fully asleep, I stood up quietly, walked to the shoe cabinet, and took out the black phone again.

This time I went through it more carefully.

The chat history with Valerie was only the tip of the iceberg.

There were also conversations with his assistant, group chats with company executives, and bank transfer records.

“Mr. Gilbert, your flight and hotel for the trip to Chicago next week are booked. Same arrangement as usual, separate reservations from Miss Henson's.”

“Also, this month's allowance for your wife has been sent. $150.”

A hundred and fifty dollars.

He wired Valerie $150,000 without batting an eye.

My monthly allowance was $150.

That money had to cover utilities, groceries, and the occasional “family emergency” he invented whenever he needed cash.

The last time I bought myself clothes was last winter, an $8 puffer jacket from an outlet store.

The last time I ate out was two months ago, a bowl of beef noodle soup at a food cart.

Nine dollars. I'd stood there debating whether to add an egg.

I screenshotted every chat log and every transfer, one by one.

Over a hundred photos. My phone nearly ran out of storage.

It was past two in the morning by the time I finished. I slipped the phone back into his briefcase and crept into the bedroom.

The next morning, Robert was up early.

He stood in front of the mirror shaving, then pulled on that same dull gray jacket. He glanced at me as I sat up in bed, his tone identical to every other morning.

“I'll grab breakfast on the way. Fix yourself something.”

“Might be late tonight. Don't wait up.”

He picked up his briefcase, opened the door, and left.

I sat there for a while, then picked up my phone and texted my boss that I wasn't feeling well and needed the day off.

After washing my face, I caught my reflection by the door. My hair was a mess, my complexion sallow, the fine lines at the corners of my eyes impossible to miss.

Valerie was right. I didn't look thirty-one. I looked worse.

The bus rattled for forty minutes before I got off across the street from the Grandview Group tower.

The building was massive, flanked by a pair of stone lions at the entrance. Everything about it screamed money.

I crossed the street and headed for the front doors.

Security stopped me.

“Good morning. Who are you here to see?”

“Robert Gilbert.”

The guard looked me up and down, his expression saying everything his mouth didn't.

You? Here to see our CEO?

“Do you have an appointment?”

“If not, I can't let you in.”

None of this surprised me.

I stepped back outside, took out my phone, and called Valerie.

It rang several times before she picked up.

“Hello? Who is this?”

Her voice was lazy, like she hadn't gotten out of bed yet.

I told her the guards wouldn't let me in. She sounded annoyed but agreed to come down.

“God, what a pain. Wait there.”

I stood outside for close to half an hour before Valerie finally showed up.

The moment the guards saw her, their faces split into grins：“Good morning, Miss Henson.”

Valerie walked in with her chin high, and I followed behind her.

From the lobby to the elevator, every employee we passed stopped to greet her, men and women alike.

“Good morning, Miss Henson.”

“Morning, Mrs. Gilbert.”

“Hey, Val!”

She acknowledged each one, chin lifted, her heels clicking sharply against the marble.

In the elevator it was just the two of us. She leaned against the wall, slid her sunglasses off, and gave me a sidelong look.

“Sweetie, that outfit is a whole situation.”

“Let me tell you, if a woman can't even bother to dress herself up, she's got no right to complain when her man stops looking.”

The elevator reached the top floor and the doors opened.

Valerie stepped out first, her heels clicking across the polished marble.

She walked straight to the dark wooden door, didn't bother knocking, and pushed it open.

“Babe!”

She dragged out the word, her voice syrupy and coy.

The CEO's office was enormous, floor-to-ceiling windows framing the city skyline beyond.

Robert sat in the black leather executive chair, pen in hand, signing documents.

He heard her voice and looked up.

Then he saw me.

The pen froze mid-air.

“Honey?!”

“You……what are you doing here?”