Husband's Affair, My Ruin

The aroma of garlic and herbs greeted me as I pushed open the door to our apartment. After a grueling day at the office, the smell of home cooking should have been comforting. Instead, I felt a pang of surprise—Damian rarely cooked on weeknights.

"Honey, I'm home," I called out, slipping off my heels and placing my bag on the entryway table.

Damian appeared in the kitchen doorway wearing the apron I'd given him last Christmas, a dish towel slung over his shoulder. His dark hair was slightly disheveled, and there was a smudge of sauce on his cheek that made him look boyish despite his thirty-two years.

"Happy anniversary, Sophia," he said, his smile wide as he approached to kiss me. "I made your favorite—shrimp scampi with that white wine reduction you love."

I melted into his embrace, momentarily forgetting the stack of reports I'd left unfinished. "Our anniversary isn't until next week," I murmured against his chest.

"I know, but I wanted to surprise you. You've been working so hard lately." His fingers traced circles on my back. "Go freshen up. Dinner's almost ready."

Twenty minutes later, I sat across from Damian at our dining table, which he had adorned with candles and a small vase of roses. The pasta before me glistened with olive oil and white wine sauce, the shrimp perfectly pink.

"This looks amazing," I said, genuinely touched. It reminded me of our high school days when we'd compete over everything—even cooking for each other after we started dating.

Damian raised his glass. "To us. From academic rivals to soulmates."

I clinked my glass against his and took a sip of wine before twirling pasta onto my fork. The first bite hit my tongue with an explosion of flavor—garlic, white wine, butter, and... something else. Something sharp and leafy.

My throat tightened almost immediately.

"Damian," I gasped, dropping my fork with a clatter. "Is there cilantro in this?"

His eyes widened in what looked like genuine alarm. "What? No, I wouldn't—" He stopped mid-sentence, his expression shifting to horror. "Oh god, Sophia. The fresh herbs from the market... they must have mixed them up."

I was already pushing away from the table, my lips tingling and throat constricting. The hives would start soon—they always did when I ingested cilantro. Damian knew this. He'd known about my allergy since our second date, when he'd had to rush me to the emergency room after a taco incident.

"My... medication," I managed, pointing toward the bathroom as I felt the first welts rising on my neck.

Damian jumped up, knocking his chair backward in his haste. "I'll get it! Just sit down, try to stay calm."

As he disappeared down the hallway, his phone, left on the table, lit up with a notification. Then another. And another.

I wouldn't normally look, but something about the rapid succession drew my eye. The preview banner showed messages from someone named "CilantroLover" on Instagram:

*"Did you like the recipe I sent?"*

*"Can't wait to see you tomorrow..."*

*"Still have the taste of you on my lips..."*

My breath caught for reasons entirely unrelated to my allergic reaction. Damian returned, antihistamine in hand, just as another notification appeared. He lunged for the phone, silencing it with fumbling fingers before handing me the medication.

"Here, take this. I'm so sorry, Sophia. I should have been more careful." His voice was steady, but I noticed a flush creeping up his neck that had nothing to do with the warm kitchen.

I swallowed the pills, watching him over the rim of my water glass. My husband of seven years, who had once memorized every detail about me—including my severe cilantro allergy—had somehow "accidentally" incorporated it into an anniversary dinner.

And someone called "CilantroLover" was sending him intimate messages.

"Who was that?" I asked, my voice raspy from the allergic reaction.

"Just work," he replied too quickly. "Nothing important. Should we order takeout instead? Or I could make you something else?"

I studied his face—the face I thought I knew better than my own. For the first time in our marriage, I wondered if I knew this man at all.

"No," I said quietly. "I'm not hungry anymore."