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.”