Isabella Waterlow, the queen of New Ark City's elite and a wife famed for her boundless devotion, has always lived in the headlines. To mark my birthday, she spared no expense—every firework that burst across the night sky and every rose blooming in the city was hers.

Beneath the riot of colors that lit up the heavens, Isabella leaned in, her delicate frame rising on tiptoes, her lips brushing against mine in a kiss as soft as a whisper.

“Darling,” she said with a gleam in her eye, “I won’t let you envy any man.”

Her promise stood tall—a castle made entirely of blood-red roses reaching skyward. From its 33rd-floor pinnacle, her fiery proclamation blazed out, “I love you, Claude Smith.”

When I fell ill with a fever, Isabella's reaction was as dramatic as her affections. She wanted to summon every private doctor in the city to ensure my swift recovery. Even our love story found its way onto the largest screens downtown, with our wedding photos heralded as a modern-day romance for the ages.

But now, reality had its moment of intrusion.

The scene was unremarkable at first: I reached out to hand Isabella her coat, only for a small object to tumble from its pocket—a shiny pink package. The moment stretched unbearably. It was a condom. Strawberry-flavored. A flavor I despised.

The air around me seemed to chill as I stooped down to retrieve the package. The faint, saccharine scent wafted toward me—cloying, greasy, unmistakable. As I studied the packaging, an unsettling familiarity crept in.

Last month, during an unannounced visit to Isabella’s company, a curious incident replayed in my mind. Her new secretary, Samuel Castillo, had rounded a corner carrying a parcel, only to collide with me. Startled, his grip slipped, sending the contents spilling. Tiny pink packages lay scattered across the floor.

I knelt to help. “Are you okay?” I asked.

Samuel flushed crimson, his hands scrambling to gather the items. “Mr. Smith! I’m so sorry—I didn’t see you.” His embarrassment was palpable.

He explained with a shy, proud grin, “My girlfriend uses these. We run out so quickly—I’ve been buying a few boxes every few days. Please don’t mention this to anyone.”

At the time, I chuckled, brushing it off as a trivial office mishap. But now, clutching an identical package, the cold realization crawled up my spine. My hands were trembling as my mind stitched the pieces together.

“Darling, what are you thinking about?” Isabella’s voice melted into the moment, trailing steam as she emerged from the bathroom, her damp hair framing her radiant face. She slipped her arms around me, her warmth jolting against my chilled composure.

Her brow furrowed as she took in my pallor. “What’s wrong, darling? Who upset you? Tell me and I’ll have them fired immediately!”

I lifted my gaze to meet hers. Six years of marriage, her every gesture crafted with love, flashed before me. From the flowers to the private cinema to her undying devotion to my whims—she had always been the embodiment of care.

People would often comment on how indulgent she was and with a wry smile, I’d tease her, “If you keep this up, you’ll be another Mark Antony and they’ll call me Cleopatra—a calamity in disguise.”

But Isabella would just laugh, unbothered by the jest and cradle me close. “If you’re Cleopatra, then I’ll gladly be Mark Antony. He waged wars for his queen and I’d spend my fortune tenfold for my Claude.”

Her vows lingered, ghostlike, but now they felt hollow.

With a bitter smile, I raised the offending pink package between us. “What’s this?”

A flicker of panic danced across Isabella’s features, but she quickly regained composure.

“Where did you find that?” she asked, feigning innocence.

I pointed to her coat. “It fell out of your pocket.”

Her eyes widened before she slapped a hand to her forehead with a laugh, an almost theatrical gesture. “Oh, silly me! I must’ve taken it by mistake. Last month during team building, one of my colleagues ordered fried chicken. I was grabbing disposable gloves and must have grabbed this by accident.”

Her explanation hung in the air, fragile and thin as glass.

I locked my gaze with Isabella, letting the silence stretch between us. She held my eyes, her expression shifting and then her cheeks flushed crimson. Her voice broke through, tremulous yet urgent, as she pulled me into a desperate embrace.

"Claude," she whispered, her tone cracking, "you don’t think this is mine, do you?"

Her voice trembled as she continued, her arms tightening around me.

"I know you better than anyone. I know how much you hate strawberry-flavored things. After all these years, you think I’d let something like this into our home?"

Tears glistened in her wide eyes, the sincerity in her expression nearly palpable. She leaned closer, her lips brushing against mine, murmuring, "Darling, you’re my life."

Her hands cupped my face, her gaze unwavering. "If you don’t trust me, I’ll march back to the office right now. I’ll find out who it belongs to and fire them this instant!"

Her resolve seemed unshakable. Her voice, her gestures—all of it carried the weight of truth. She turned away, already moving toward the door to prove her point.

I reached out, tugging gently on the corner of her sleeve.

"There’s no need," I said softly.

She turned back instantly, searching my face for reassurance. I held her gaze as I spoke slowly, deliberately.

"I believe you won’t lie to me."

Her face broke into a smile as she exhaled a relieved breath. She leaned in to ruffle my hair affectionately before heading to the kitchen.

“I’ll go prepare your lunch for tomorrow,” she said, her voice light once more.

From my vantage on the second-floor railing, I watched her move about the kitchen with the practiced ease of routine. My thoughts began to spiral.

Six years of marriage and not once had Isabella shirked this ritual. No matter how demanding her schedule, she always made time to prepare meals for me—hand-picking fresh ingredients, crafting dishes with her own hands.

Her devotion baffled others. My colleagues often teased, “Why does Madam Waterlow bother cooking herself? With her fortune, she could hire the best chefs in the world!”

To this, Isabella always gave the same answer, with a hint of a smile, "Claude likes what I cook."

Her love, so constant and absolute, had always seemed indestructible. But could she have forgotten my vow? The one I whispered to her on our wedding day, amidst promises of forever.

If you ever betray me, I’ll vanish from your world entirely.

A sudden crack of thunder shattered my thoughts. My head turned toward the sound, and in its wake, I heard Isabella’s light footsteps approaching. Convinced I was asleep, she tucked the blankets carefully around me. Her fingers lingered on my shoulder as if seeking reassurance, before she began to retreat.

The stillness broke with the sharp trill of her phone. Under the dim light, I saw her brow crease as she glanced at the screen. Her eyes flicked to me before she answered in a hushed voice, moving toward the staircase.

"Didn’t I tell you not to call after hours?" she hissed. "If it’s urgent, handle it tomorrow at the office. Don’t disturb my husband and me—"

Her voice faltered. Then, sharper, more panicked.

"What? You’re here? At my house?"

My heartbeat quickened as I watched her rush downstairs. Moments later, I slid out of bed and approached the tall French windows. From here, I had a clear view of the villa’s entrance.

There, standing soaked under the pouring rain, was Samuel, his figure outlined by the storm.

Isabella opened the door, an umbrella shielding her from the rain. Her voice was firm but low, though I could still catch her words.

"Why are you here? Didn’t I tell you never to come near my house, especially not in front of my husband?"

Samuel tilted his head upward, his face an open book of anguish. "I’m scared of the thunder, Isabella," he admitted, stepping closer. "I... I miss you."

Without warning, he leaned in and pressed his lips to hers.

I froze.

Isabella stiffened for a moment, the umbrella trembling in her hand. Then, as if succumbing to gravity, she steadied Samuel with her other arm, her palm resting on his waist.

"Stop it," she whispered, her tone soft, almost playful. But her actions betrayed her words. She didn’t resist; she didn’t pull away.

When he finally drew back, her fingers gently brushed the rain from his face. She frowned slightly, an expression I once thought reserved only for me.

"How did you handle storms before you met me?" she murmured.

Her gaze fell to his drenched clothes and I saw her swallow hard.

"You’re soaked. You’ll catch a cold. Come inside—I’ll make sure you dry off."

Samuel’s shirt clung to his sculpted frame, each curve accentuated by the waterlogged fabric. Isabella’s eyes darted away, but the tension in her expression was unmistakable.

"Isabella," Samuel asked softly, his voice tinged with hope, "can I take a shower inside?"

Isabella’s expression hardened at Samuel’s plea, her usual composure replaced by an icy resolve.

"No!" she snapped, her voice firm and unyielding. "If my husband finds you in the house, it will cause unnecessary trouble. I’ll take you to a hotel."

Without hesitation, she stepped back into the villa, grabbed her coat and draped it over Samuel’s shoulders. She tossed him the car keys, her tone leaving no room for argument.

"Wait for me in the car."

Handing him the umbrella, she turned to head inside. The quick efficiency of her movements betrayed her nerves as she went upstairs to change her clothes. Before leaving, she entered the bedroom to turn off the lights, her hand hovering over the switch.

“Don’t turn off the lights," my voice broke the silence, cutting through the dim room.

Isabella froze, her hand suspended mid-air. Slowly, she turned to face me, her smile shaky and forced.

"Darling," she said, her tone light but strained, "when did you wake up?"

Feigning grogginess, I propped myself up slightly.

"What are you standing there for, my dear? Come to bed."

My gaze dropped to her attire, catching the subtle change. My brow furrowed.

"Didn’t you have your pajamas on just now? Are you going somewhere?"

Her reply came quickly, almost too quickly. "No, I just tried on what I planned to wear tomorrow. I’ll go to bed now."

She urged me to sleep first, but I shook my head, insistent that I watch her join me. Isabella hesitated but relented, returning to her pajamas and slipping into bed beside me.

"Darling," she murmured, pulling me close, "I’ll hold you while you sleep."

I closed my eyes, her familiar warmth enveloping me. But my mind was elsewhere, replaying the scene from earlier—Samuel’s lips on hers, her body frozen but unresisting.

Samuel, the male secretary, had worked for Isabella for two years. Until now, I had never doubted her. After our marriage, Isabella had insisted on hiring only female assistants, ensuring that no man could intrude on her professional or personal space.

But Samuel’s entry into her life had been... unconventional. I remembered that day vividly. I had come to her office to surprise her with fruit, only to find Samuel being rejected during his interview. He had collapsed to the floor in despair, his desperation palpable.

"Please, Madam Waterlow," he had begged, his voice raw, "if I don’t get this job, I’ll die!"

Isabella had remained cold and indifferent, unmoved by his pleas. But Samuel had escalated his desperation, running to the rooftop and shouting his ultimatum.

"Madam Waterlow!" he had cried, his voice echoing through the city. "I met all the requirements! Why am I being rejected just because I’m a man? I won’t accept this! If you don’t hire me, I’ll jump right now!"

Fearing the damage this spectacle could cause to the company’s reputation, I had urged Isabella to hire him. "Just give him a position," I had said. "Have him assist someone else. Keep him out of your way."

For a time, Isabella treated him with the same coldness, keeping their interactions strictly professional. So when had this connection begun?

Now, as she lay beside me, I felt the tension between us like a chasm. She shifted restlessly, her hand attempting to slip away from mine, but I tightened my grip.

After a long silence, I heard her sigh softly. The faint glow of her phone lit up her face as she began typing a message. I squinted, catching the words she sent to her assistant.

[Samuel is in my car. Take him to the hotel. I can’t leave right now.]

The assistant’s reply came swiftly and Isabella visibly relaxed, setting her phone aside. She leaned back into me, her hand gently resting on my chest as though trying to dispel the unease in the air.

By morning, I rose and prepared for work, my thoughts heavy with questions. When I arrived at the office, the atmosphere was noticeably off. Something had shifted, an unspoken tension lingering in the air.

Samuel had made a scene. His disheveled appearance caught everyone’s attention. His eyes were red and swollen, his posture slouched with exhaustion.

Colleagues surrounded him, their tones a mix of teasing and concern.

"Hey, Sam," one quipped, "did you fight with your girlfriend? Those bags under your eyes are giving you away."

Another chimed in, "Yeah, did she have her way with you? Toss you around all night, huh?"

Someone scoffed, trying to defend him. "Cut it out. Can’t you see Sam’s in a bad mood? His girlfriend probably mistreated him. Women, I tell you—they’re all trouble."

At that moment, I entered, Isabella following closely behind me. The room fell into a hush as Samuel’s puffy eyes locked onto hers. His lips twisted into a bitter smile.

"You’re right," he said loudly, his voice dripping with venom. "Women are trouble. They’re all liars."

His pointed words were ambiguous, yet unmistakably aimed at Isabella. With exaggerated gall, he leaned closer to the female assistant, whispering something that made her giggle nervously, all while stealing glances at Isabella.

I watched as Isabella stiffened beside me, her composure cracking ever so slightly.