He let out a scoff, his eyes trailing lazily down Jennifer's thigh, still exposed below her over-the-knee boots.

"That is impressive? The best part—oh, you haven't even seen it yet."

The manager smacked his lips, clearly envious.

"When I hit your level, I'm keeping a hundred just like her!"

"But hey, your wife isn't bad either. Even without makeup, she's a stunner."

The second that the manager mentioned me, Heather's face hardened.

"Don't even think about touching my wife! Unless you're ready to lose everything!"

The manager quickly backtracked, nodding and stammering apologies, swearing he'd make sure I'd never find out anything.

But at this point, I don't care anymore.

I turned and bolted, desperate to get out of there, only to bump straight into a delivery guy rushing in with boxes.

"Mrs. Walsh—"

"Shh!" I cut him off. "Don't tell anyone you saw me! Unless you're looking for a new job!"

I didn't even know how I got back home. When I finally looked up, I was already standing outside the door.

One of my shoes was missing, and I looked like a mess.

When I checked the time, I realized eight hours had gone by since the shoot started.

I ran to the closest convenience store and cleared the shelves of every bottle of alcohol they had.

After paying, I stepped outside—and as if fate wasn't done screwing with me, I ran into my husband's mistress.

The way her eyes lit up when she saw me—ugh. That smug little gleam.

But her words? Sickly sweet.

"Oh my god, you're Mrs. Walsh, right? I've been such a huge fan of yours for ages! I even sent gifts during your wedding livestream! I can't believe we live in the same area!"

"You know, I used to be really jealous of your love story. I mean, who wouldn't dream of a husband like yours? And guess what? My dream came true!"

She giggled, tucking her hair behind her ear in this fake, innocent way.

Her voice dropped to this conspiratorial whisper like we were best friends sharing secrets.

"My apartment here? It's a gift from him—basically just like a little 'hello' present, you know?"

"Anyway, hey, can I add you on IG? We should totally hang out sometime—maybe get facials together or something!"

I didn't want to let her see me break, so I kept my face blank and showed her my username.

After adding me, she hooked her arm through mine like we were best friends. As if it was a joke, I walked into the neighborhood together with my husband's mistress.

She kept chattering in my ear, talking about how her boyfriend gave her an apartment, a company, and even scripts written just for her.

I just nodded along. Finally, at my front door, I managed to escape, muttering a quick goodbye before shutting myself inside.

The second I was alone, I cracked open a few bottles of alcohol, hoping to drink myself into oblivion.

But it didn't take long before my phone buzzed with a message. From her.

[Hey, Shannon, do you like roses? Today's shoot went so well, and my boyfriend says he's buying out every rose in the city to celebrate! That's a lot, right? I can send some to you if you'd like!]

I stared at that shameless message for a moment before deleting it without replying.

By the time Heather got home, I'd already had quite a bit to drink.

He froze in the doorway, his eyes wide. He didn't even take off his shoes, just rushed to the kitchen to make some hangover soup for me.

I grabbed his hand as he passed by and pulled him toward me like a brat.

"Babe, I want roses. Can you get me some? Like right now."

He let out a chuckle. But his eyes—they were empty.

"Why the sudden interest in flowers? Can I get them for you tomorrow, babe? I've got so much to do tonight, you know?"

"Did you drink too much?"

Tears welled up in my eyes as I shook my head bitterly.

"You can't, can you? Oh well, never mind. Go ahead finish your work."

"Babe, what's wrong? Didn't you sleep well last night? How about you head to bed early tonight? I'll make you soup for your hangover first, but after that, I've really got to get back to the company."

He kept asking me what was wrong, but I didn't say another word.

What was the point? Nothing I said would change a damn thing.

He watched me sip the hangover soup he made, and then just like that, he left me alone without a word.

About an hour later, my husband's mistress texted me to open the door.

At the doorway, there they were—999 roses.

I bit my lip and stomped on them like a maniac, crushing them under my feet.

Again and again, until petals were crushed underfoot, scattering on the floor like a massacre of red, and I was too exhausted to stand.

Then my phone buzzed again—it was her sending me a text again.

This time, she sent a picture of dinner: a perfectly set table, candles glowing softly, and a homemade cake.

I noticed my husband's hand in the shot. Still wearing his wedding ring.

I stumbled back into the living room, grabbed the leftover bottle of whiskey, and drained it in one go.

I sank drunk on the couch and dialed the agent handling the island.

That stupid island. Once the symbol of our happiness, now it just made my skin crawl.

When the call ended, I passed out on the couch.

I woke up to the soft press of familiar lips on mine.

Heather's breath smelled faintly like cream.

"What's with all these cancellation texts? What'd you cancel?"

There was a nervous edge to his voice.

I sat up and leaned back, putting space between us. My voice was calm, almost detached.

"Oh, nothing. Just scanned some random QR codes yesterday. Figured I'd cancel them before they tried scamming me."

I glanced toward the doorway. The massacre of roses from last night had already been cleaned up by the staff.

I let out a small breath of relief.

"Did you finish your work?"

He nodded. His shoulders relaxed at my response before heading into the kitchen to make breakfast.

I picked up my phone to check on the island sale, but instead, I saw a new post blowing up online. Some random commenter who'd called Jennifer out the other day had now written this long, dramatic apology.

The reason? Jennifer had just been announced as the new face of a luxury brand.

Breakfast tasted like cardboard, and Heather wasn't doing much better.

He spent most of the meal staring at his phone, this faint, unreadable smile tugging at his lips.

When breakfast was done, he suddenly froze for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse.

"Babe, something came up at work. I gotta head out. Don't worry about the dishes—I'll handle them later."

Before I could say anything, he'd already slipped on his shoes and was out the door.

He was so in a hurry that he didn't even take off his apron.

He didn't even have time to ask me why I'd been drinking last night.

Well, I guess there's only so much space in one heart. Once someone else moves in, there's no room left for you.

Not even five minutes after he left, Jennifer's name lit up my phone again.

This time, it was a photo of two sets of lingerie laid out on a bed—one black, one white.

[Hey! Which one do you think I should wear? If it were your husband, which would he like more?]

I didn't bother replying. I was too busy packing.

By the time I finished, every trace of me was gone from that villa.

On the way to the airport, I got a text from Heather.

[You sold the island? Why? What's going on?]

I typed my reply: [Make sure you're home to accept my gift. Oh, and Heather? You're out of chances.]

And then, I turned off my phone, pulled out the SIM card, and tossed it in the nearest trash.

Boarding the plane, I felt lighter.