On our fifth wedding anniversary day, I quietly slipped into my wife, Rosalie Lane’s office, planning to surprise her.

But instead, I found a photograph hidden in her drawer.

In the picture, Rosalie was passionately kissing her first love.

What hit me hardest was the pure white wedding dress she was wearing.

As I stood there, seething with anger, a message from Rosalie lit up my phone.

[Honey, I have to go to a hotel with Blake tonight for work. I won’t be home for dinner.]

[Be good and wait for me at home, okay? Love you.]

——

I almost ripped the photo to pieces, but after taking a deep breath, I forced myself to calm down.

Instead, I grabbed my phone and replied. [Okay.]

Then, I flipped the photo over. On the back, in elegant handwriting, were the words. [My beauty blooms only for the one I love most.]

It was Rosalie’s handwriting.

When we first started dating, we used to send each other letters all the time, so I’d recognize her writing anywhere.

Reading that line snuffed out the last bit of hope I had.

I threw the flowers and gifts I’d brought into the trash and walked out of her office.

The afternoon sun was glaring and harsh, but I felt nothing but just a coldness that seeped into my bones, making me shiver like I’d been plunged into an ice bath.

The chill, the despair, made me want to numb it all.

When I got home, I sank into the couch, lost in my thoughts, not eating, not drinking, just chain-smoking.

I thought back to how I first met Rosalie, a beautiful, chance encounter.

I was twenty-five, and she was twenty-one. We were both single, on the same tour.

I remember helping her with her luggage a few times, and in return, she bought me drinks and ice cream.

We got close fast, and at every stop, I was the one taking photos for her.

When the trip ended, we went back to our own cities but stayed in touch.

A year later, I quit a promising job and moved to her city.

We got to know each other better, fell in love, and eventually got married.

Everyone who knew us envied me, saying I was lucky to have such a wonderful wife.

I loved Rosalie deeply and gave her everything I had.

When she cried, I comforted her.

When she laughed, I laughed with her.

I kissed away her tears and washed her feet.

Her every smile, every frown, everything about her tugged at my heart.

I did everything I could to make her happy, never letting myself slack off.

But after five years of trying so hard, I’ve come to realize the marriage I thought was my greatest happiness was nothing more than an illusion, a complete and utter lie.

Around 1 a.m., Rosalie finally came home.

She smelled like alcohol, and the smoke in her hair was even stronger than mine.

She looked surprised to see me sitting on the couch.

“Honey, it’s so late. Why aren’t you asleep?”

I blew out a smoke ring and said, “I couldn’t sleep.”

She sat down next to me, wrapping her arms around mine. Her legs, wrapped in black stockings, crossed over each other, looking incredibly tempting.

“Honey, is it because you can’t sleep without me?”

When we first got married, Rosalie told me she hated stockings and high heels.

She thought they were torture devices meant to please men, making women suffer.

But a few months ago, she started wearing stockings almost every day, switching up the styles and patterns.

When I asked her why, she didn’t answer but just told me to stop being nosy.

I glanced at her and asked, "Who did you meet with tonight?"

“Why do you ask?” she replied, a little guarded.

“No reason, just curious.”

“There’s nothing to be curious about. Even if I told you, you wouldn’t know them.”

Rosalie yawned and said she was exhausted, so she’d take a shower and head to bed. As she got up, I asked, “Do you remember what yesterday was?”

“Yesterday?” She looked confused for a moment, then asked, “What was it?”

Hearing that, whatever hope I had left in my heart completely died.

She didn’t care about our marriage at all.

Forcing a smile, I said, “It’s nothing. You’ve got work tomorrow, so go ahead and shower.”

“Oh, by the way, I have a business trip tomorrow. I’ll be gone for about three days.”

“Where to? And who’s going with you?”

“Phuket. I’m going alone.”

As she said this, her eyes darted away, avoiding mine.

“Your company’s business must be expanding if you’re working on international markets now,” I said.

“Yeah, mostly thanks to Blake. He’s been handling this client for over a month, and now it’s just down to finalizing the details.”

Her eyes seemed to light up when she mentioned Blake Gibson.

They grew up together in the same neighborhood. Blake and Rosalie were the classic childhood sweethearts.

When Blake’s family moved abroad, they lost touch.

But six months ago, he came back alone, looking to start fresh.

Rosalie, who had just been promoted to CEO, didn’t hesitate to bring Blake into the company as her personal assistant.

That’s when I noticed the changes.

She used to go to work without makeup, only putting on a little for important meetings.

Now, she wouldn’t leave the house without full makeup, foundation, eyeliner, lipstick, the whole routine.

She used to come home right on time, never working late, always eager to be with me.

Now, she’s constantly saying she’s busy, coming home late, and going on frequent business trips.

Rosalie used to be so close to me. Whether we were talking, sleeping, or watching TV, she always wanted to be in my arms.

But now, whenever we’re together, she’s glued to her phone, smiling at something or someone.

Sometimes I’d ask her who she was texting that made her so happy.

She’d quickly put her phone away and say it was nothing, just watching videos.

She used to light up when she saw me, with a smile that said I was the one she cared about.

Now, that light was gone, except when she talked about Blake.

I regretted so much.

I regretted not seeing it sooner, regretted being so oblivious, regretted not realizing that the person I loved most had already moved on.

I thought I would be devastated, that I would be in unbearable pain, that I would confront her in a rage.

After all, everyone who knew us knew how deeply I loved Rosalie so much that I would have given my life to her.

But strangely, I felt nothing now.

I felt no anger, no sorrow, but just a deep, empty numbness.

I guessed that was what it felt like when your heart truly broke.

When it was all said and done, there was nothing left but a quiet sense of letting go.

After Rosalie finished her shower, I was already in bed, waiting with the bedside lamp set to a cozy orange glow.

It was our usual way of signaling that we wanted to be close.

I didn’t actually have any specific plans. I just wanted to test her.

As expected, Rosalie, who had never turned me down before, rejected my advance without hesitation.

“Honey, it’s really late. Let’s talk about this tomorrow,” she said.

“Staying up late isn’t good for your skin. Just go to sleep,” I replied.

I looked at her and said, “Okay, let’s sleep.”

Rosalie lay down, turning her back to me.

I placed my hand gently on her slim waist.

I had wanted a child since we got married, and her parents had been urging us as well.

We had agreed earlier this year that she would start trying after the New Year.

But after Blake showed up, Rosalie changed her mind.

She said she was still young and in a critical phase of her career and having a child would be too disruptive.

I understood and even helped convince her parents to wait a few more years for a grandchild.

Looking back, I realize how naive I was.

Rosalie complained that my hand on her was as heavy as a pig’s trotter and uncomfortable.

It was a stark contrast to how she used to need me to hold her to fall asleep.

Now, it was the complete opposite.

With a heavy heart, I withdrew my hand and turned off the light, settling in for the night.

The next day, Rosalie flew off to Phuket.

For the entire three days she was away, she didn’t send a single message or make a single call.

Her social media was silent too.

But Blake’s social media was noisy.

There were pictures of blue skies, white clouds, and palm-fringed beaches.

There were surfing, diving, and beach parties.

The woman constantly by his side never fully showed her face and wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, but it was unmistakably Rosalie.

After years of sharing a bed, I knew her inside out.

Yet seeing her in those photos felt oddly unfamiliar.

She seemed so relaxed with Blake, her smile wide and genuine.

I’d never seen Rosalie this happy, not even during our early romance.

It was clear who she truly loved.

Seeing those pictures gave me a brief sting, but it quickly passed.

I liked every post and then sent Rosalie a message.

[When you get back from Phuket, let’s get a divorce.]

Within ten seconds, my phone rang.

Rosalie’s voice was filled with anger.

“Eason, what the hell is this about? Why are you suddenly talking about divorce?”

“Did you lose your mind or something?”

I told her I wasn’t crazy, just that I’d given it a lot of thought.

“And what’s the reason? Give me a reason!”

I replied calmly, “Do you remember what I said to you on our wedding day?”

“What are you talking about?”

“If you’ve forgotten, then there’s no point in discussing it.”

I took a deep breath and said, “Rosalie, let’s just say I’m done with this relationship. It’s better if we part ways now.”

“Eason, are you seeing someone else?”

I was caught off guard. I never expected her, the one who had betrayed me, to think this way.

Wasn’t she the one who had strayed?

In a moment of frustration, I snapped, “Yes, I’ve moved on!”