“Stop arguing, stop arguing. Let’s just go home already,” someone muttered, trying to defuse the tension.

Home? Fuck that. Dorian had a man’s body but still dared to call himself Elara’s “sister”?

Elara shoved me, seizing the moment.

“Go outside and calm down! Don’t embarrass yourself here!”

I stood on the balcony for a long time. The night wind bit at my skin, but not as sharply as the laughter that spilled from inside. Elara’s voice, Dorian’s voice—mingling, light, intimate. Each burst of laughter stabbed into my chest.

When I finally returned to the bedroom, Elara was already out of the shower, hair damp, slipping under the covers.

She glanced at me casually.

“Dorian’s sleeping here tonight. He’s drunk, and it’s hard to get a taxi.”

My gaze fell on his jacket tossed carelessly on our sofa. I couldn’t help the bitter laugh that escaped.

Maybe this whole wedding was a joke from the very beginning. Did she really think I’d always endure it—just because I loved her?

Fine. Let’s see how far you’ll take this farce.

The next morning, Dorian was still snoring on our couch when Elara and I left for the island honeymoon we’d booked months ago.

At the ocean-view villa, Elara hugged me from behind, her chin resting on my shoulder.

“We could live like this every day. Isn’t it wonderful?”

I was about to turn and answer her—when her phone rang. She slipped out of my arms and rushed into the bedroom to answer it.

Through dinner, her phone never stopped lighting up. Dorian’s name filled the screen, message after message:

“Elara, I’ve got a fever. No one’s here to take care of me. Can you video call and teach me how to make ginger soup?”

“The ocean view you posted is gorgeous. A shame I’m not there with you. So lonely.”

Then came the photo: Dorian, sprawled in bed, wearing the very lace camisole Elara had once claimed was “too small for me, so I gave it to him.” His caption read:

‘This little thing you gave me feels just like you’re here with me~’

My chest tightened. “He’s a grown man. How the hell can he post something like that?”

Elara’s eyes narrowed instantly.

“Why are you at it again? He’s sick, he’s fragile—shouldn’t I care about him? If you keep picking on Dorian, don’t blame me for getting angry!”

Then she answered his video call, her tone instantly soft and sweet.

“Dorian, be good. Take your medicine first, alright?”

Her voice—the one I thought was mine alone—poured through the phone to him.

The next morning, Dorian stood at our villa door, suitcase in hand, smiling like a fox.

“Surprise! I had a business trip nearby, so I thought I’d stop in.”

Elara’s eyes lit up. She grabbed his arm. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He winked at her. “Wouldn’t be a surprise if I did. So… which room’s mine?”

“We booked a couple’s villa. One bedroom,” I cut in flatly.

He feigned shock, then waved it off. “No problem. Couch is fine.”

I ignored him and headed into the bathroom. As I reached for my toothbrush, a small box slipped from Elara’s makeup bag—birth control pills.

Before I could even process it, Dorian strolled in behind me, yawning. His eyes darted to the box, and his mouth curled into a smirk.

“I told her to take those. Getting pregnant right after marriage? What a drag. Better to enjoy life, just the two of you—right, Elara?”

He winked at her. She froze, then nodded weakly.

My chest turned to ice.

“Did he tell you to take them—or did you decide that for us?”

Elara wouldn’t meet my eyes.

“Of course it’s for us. And… and Dorian is right…”

Dorian is right.

Dorian smirked wider, twisting the knife.

“Don’t be hard on her, Adrian. She’s too kind. She knew you wanted kids, but she didn’t want to upset you. Isn’t that thoughtful?”

“Get the fuck out!”

I shoved him back, then kicked him hard. He crashed into the doorframe, his forehead splitting open, blood trickling down his face.

“Adrian! What are you doing?!” Elara shrieked, rushing to Dorian’s side. Her eyes were bloodshot, her hands trembling as she shielded him. “He’s my friend!”

“Friend?” I laughed, bitter and hollow. “Would a friend interfere with whether we have children? Would a friend show up at our honeymoon villa? Elara, answer me—who’s your husband? Me, or him?”

She faltered, lips parting but no words coming out. Finally, she snapped, “You’re being unreasonable! Wait until I get back at you!”

Dorian clutched his bleeding forehead, yet his tone was gentle, saintly.

“Elara, don’t cry. I’m fine. Adrian just loves you too much. A little bleeding is nothing. Don’t be angry with him.”

Her tears spilled as she looked at him with heartache, her entire body shielding him from me. That sight broke something inside me. In that moment, I realized—I had completely lost.

She dragged Dorian to the living room to bandage him, leaving me on the balcony with nothing but a cigarette and my thoughts.

Her phone lay unattended on the coffee table. The screen lit up with notifications. My blood roared in my ears as I picked it up. A group chat.

Dorian: “We fought again. Adrian’s so stingy—it’s like he’s not even a man. We’ve been like this since childhood. If he hadn’t hit me, I’d suspect he was a woman.”

Elara: “He’s already like this just after marriage. He deserves to be taught a lesson.”

Friend: “If it doesn’t work out, Elara, just divorce him and live with Dorian.”

Dorian (voice message): ‘I’m not mad. Elara just used Adrian’s card to buy me a villa. Right, Elara?’

Elara: “Yes, yes. As long as you’re happy, I’ll support you with Adrian Westcott’s money.”

Scrolling further, the chat was filled with sneers:

“He’s rich, stupid, and easy to fool.”

My hands shook. So that was it. She had already handed him my secondary card, while I’d been stupid enough to keep transferring her monthly allowance like a devoted fool.

The farce was over.

Elara never locked her phone. I used to think it was because she had nothing to hide. Now, it made it easy—I downloaded every chat, every photo, every transaction record.

She came back in, expression cold.

“Because you hit Dorian, this honeymoon is over. I’ll take him home so he can rest. You stay here and reflect on your behavior.”

Without even collecting her luggage, she grabbed her phone and left with him.

I made one call to Mr. Grayson of the Azure Cliffs Villa, asking him to assign a bodyguard to follow them quietly. He agreed immediately—after all, I wasn’t just another guest. I was one of the hotel’s largest shareholders.

Within hours, I had a private jet arranged and flew back to Westcliff before they even landed.

When the bodyguard got off the plane, he sent me a video. On board, a yellow-haired man groped Elara. Dorian rushed forward, punched him, and ended up with his face covered in bruises.

When the police arrived, Dorian was pinned to a table, still cursing. Elara clung to him like a madwoman, screaming at the officers:

“He’s my husband! He was protecting me! We were acting in self-defense!”

Even after mediation, Dorian still groaned dramatically over a shallow cut on his arm.

“Elara,” he rasped, “for you, I’d die.”

She collapsed against him, sobbing.

“Dorian, don’t say that. I can’t live without you.”

Minutes later, the bodyguard sent me another update.

A new address.

They weren’t going back to Dorian’s home.

They had gone straight to the wedding house Elara and I had spent six months renovating together—a home that still smelled of fresh paint, a home I had never even set foot in as a husband.

Elara sent a message: “Adrian, Dorian and I ran into an old friend. We’re staying out all night and won’t be back.”

She didn’t know I’d had surveillance cameras installed in the wedding room—originally just to make sure the workers hung the wedding photos properly. Now, on the feed, I watched her and Dorian kiss as soon as they stepped inside, then vanish into the bathroom together.

That was all the evidence I needed.

I called my butler. “Have the lawyer draft a divorce agreement.”

A pause.

“Also, dig into the transfer records between them.”

My tone remained level, almost too calm. “Contact a few top streamers. The ones who can arrive fastest. Send another car with two bodyguards—I’m going live tonight.”

I opened the app, typed the stream title: “Honeymoon Threesome: My Wife and Her ‘Best Friend.’”

At first, only a trickle of viewers joined. Clickbait? Another desperate stunt? they typed. But when a few big-name streamers linked in, the audience shot past 100,000.

I forced a smile, one that felt more painful than crying.

“People always say men and women can be ‘just friends.’ Tonight, let’s test that theory.”

I stood before the bridal chamber, scanned my fingerprint, and nodded. My bodyguard kicked the door open.

“Everyone, look for yourselves.”