On our fifth wedding anniversary, I whipped up a feast of York Portman's favorite dishes. After toiling away all evening, I waited, brimming with pride, for his return.

Instead of York, his assistant's call broke the silence.

"I'm sorry, but I can't reach the boss. There's an urgent project proposal that needs his signature."

Can't reach him? But hasn't York said he'd be working late at the office?

I tried calling, too, only to be greeted by the "phone switched off" message.

About an hour later, York finally stumbled through the door.

Exhaustion etched across his face, he immediately enveloped me in a tight embrace, his fresh stubble grazing my cheek.

"Honey, I'm so sorry for keeping you waiting. Let me grab a quick shower."

Though faint, an unfamiliar fragrance wafted into my nostrils.

A seed of doubt took root in my heart.

From our first meeting to our wedding day, I'd never questioned York's love or loyalty.

But tonight, anxiety gnawed at me, and suspicion began to sprout.

As the shower started running, I eyed his phone on the couch. Against my better judgment, I picked it up.

I'd never snooped before, so he'd never bothered password-protecting it from me. My birthday granted instant access.

As I scrutinized every chat log, everything seemed normal—work discussions, gaming banter, client queries. Nothing suspicious.

Except for what I was dreading to find yet desperately hoping I wouldn't.

I breathed a sigh of relief. Am I being overly sensitive?

Trust was the cornerstone of marriage, especially with someone who loved me to his core like York.

Reality, however, could be cruel.

Just as I was about to exit and return the phone, a message popped up, catching my eye like a fish leaping from the water.

This contact had no chat history, but this single message jolted me like an electric shock.

It was a selfie of someone wrapped in a towel. The subject's face was hidden, but long, wet hair cascaded over delicate collarbones. Droplets glistened on a snow-white neck under the soft lighting.

The thin towel clung to her body, accentuating a slender, graceful figure.

Though nothing explicit was shown, even I, as a woman, couldn't help but marvel at the allure she exuded.

The caption read: [York, I had so much fun today. Remember to find me again soon! Waiting for you!]

One image, one message—they hit me like a sledgehammer to the chest. A dull ache radiated from my heart, threatening to engulf my entire being.

Dizziness overwhelmed me, and I collapsed onto the couch.

When faced with undeniable evidence, the heart still struggles to accept it.

I felt suddenly adrift.

Since childhood, I'd believed the world was largely devoid of love.

I always wore tattered hand-me-downs and ate leftovers.

At home, I studied tirelessly and did chores from dawn to dusk, desperate for my father's attention.

But he never spared me a glance, and my efforts only earned me beatings from my stepmother for perceived shortcomings.

Ten years ago, I stood on a bridge, exhausted in body and spirit, ready to bid this world farewell.

It was York who grabbed my hand and wrapped a red and white checkered scarf around me, pulling me back from the brink.

I'd never forget his gentle voice saying, "The river's too cold in winter. You won’t like it."

When York appeared in the dark abyss of my life, he was like a beacon of light. From that moment, everything seemed to change.

He told me that what I needed to do wasn’t to leave this world but simply to leave that house.

He reassured me that love wasn't missing from the world; it was just that my family didn’t have the capacity to give it to me.

Five years ago, he became my true family.

At our wedding, he promised to give me all his love and asked if it was enough.

I cried and told him it was more than enough because I had received all the love in the world.

But can the human heart truly change?

York, who once has eyes only for me, when does he start sharing his love with another woman?

Is it his childhood sweetheart, Charlize Theron? Or perhaps his former flame, Anne Blanchett?

I'd never entertained such thoughts before, leaving me at a loss to suspect anyone beyond these two.

Swallowing my heartache, I opened the mystery woman's social media.

Her latest post, from noon today, was a leggy selfie—fair and slender. The perfect angle, with a red anklet adding a touch of allure.

The caption read: [Free tonight. Anyone up for drinks?]

York's like stood out in the comments.

My brow furrowed as I scrolled through her feed—a parade of sultry selfies with flirtatious captions.

Either we had no mutual friends, or York was her sole contact. His likes and comments were the only ones I could see.

Something felt off, but before I could dig deeper, the shower stopped. I hastily locked the phone and returned it, feeling like the guilty party.

York, freshly dressed, joined me at the table, pouring wine.

"Happy fifth anniversary, darling!"

I clinked glasses, feigning composure. "York, will you always love me like this?"

He met my gaze. "Of course, sweetheart!"

"You won't get bored of me someday and... cheat?"

He chuckled. "What nonsense! With you in my life, no one else could catch my eye. Never have, never will."

Despite the bloodshot eyes, his gaze was as clear as ever, betraying nothing.

His calm demeanor only twisted the knife in my heart. How could he lie so effortlessly?

I couldn't bring myself to confront him about the message. Am I afraid of the truth, or hoping it is all a misunderstanding due to lack of concrete evidence?

Exhausted, York didn't notice my unease. He was soon fast asleep.

As his steady breathing filled the darkness, my tears flowed freely.

My heart felt hollow. We love each other so much. How could this happen?

Sweet memories flickered and shattered before my eyes. My husband lay inches away yet felt lost to me.

After tossing and turning for hours, I made a silent vow: I would find out who this woman was.

A few days flew by, and I finally got my chance.

After several days of normal routines, York told me once again that he had to work late. In the past, I would have thought nothing of it—it was just work. But since I had seen his phone, I couldn’t shake the feeling that these late nights were becoming something else entirely.

So, one evening, I hired a car and waited outside York’s office building.

As expected, right after quitting time, his car pulled out of the underground garage, almost as if he was racing against the clock.

My heart ached again. I instructed the driver to follow him.

Fifteen minutes later, his car stopped in front of a nondescript hotel. York hurried inside, practically running.

I was consumed by curiosity. Who is this woman, the one who makes him rush out of work so eagerly?

With a sympathetic glance from the driver, I paid and got out. By the time I made it inside, York was nowhere to be seen.

I approached the hotel front desk, steeling myself to ask the young receptionist which room the man in the gray coat had gone to.

The receptionist eyed me skeptically and didn’t answer. I felt a flush of embarrassment as if I were the one in the wrong.

I tried again. “Please, can you tell me which room Mr. Portman went to?”

The receptionist’s patience was wearing thin. “Sorry, we can’t disclose guest information.”

“But he’s my… husband.”

Her expression remained unchanged as if she was either used to this kind of situation or had guessed my identity. Her response was a slight shake of the head.

Tears threatened to spill again. Am I really going to be stuck waiting in the lobby while York is with another woman in this hotel?

“Please, help me out,” I pleaded, my voice barely above a whisper.

The receptionist, with a hint of sympathy in her eyes, leaned in and spoke softly, “If you suspect he’s involved in illegal activities, you can call the police. They will get the room number for you. After all, we have to cooperate with law enforcement.”

With that, she gave a professional smile and returned to her duties.

I gave her a grateful look, pulled out my phone, and dialed. “Hello, I need to report someone engaging in illegal activity at Kingswood Hotel.”