The soft, coquettish voice of a woman floated through the phone, and he lowered his voice, trying to calm her down.

It was obvious who the call was from.

“Fine, whether you eat or not is up to you. I went all the way back just to bring you lunch, and now I don’t even have time to deliver the client’s gift.”

“You’re giving me the cold shoulder. If someone didn’t know better, they’d think I owe you millions.”

As he spoke, he grabbed the gift box with a bow on top, preparing to leave.

I suddenly remembered the baby’s formula was running low, so I handed the child over to the nanny.

Following him to the vestibule, I looked up and met Wyatt’s eyes—eyes that barely concealed his anger. I whispered, “I’m just going out to get some formula for the baby.”

At this, he completely lost it. His eyes blazed with fury as he glared at me.

“Susan, are you out of your mind? I told you I’m going out to deliver a gift to a client, and you’re still making up excuses to follow me and spy on me?”

“Don’t you have anything else to do? You’re always watching me. Should I just tie myself to you with a rope?”

Wyatt’s voice boomed in rage.

I could understand why he was angry.

In the past, whenever he went out to socialize, I’d call him non-stop.

If he didn’t pick up, I’d call every single one of his friends, family, or clients.

His shout had woken the baby from his nap.

I quickly rushed to calm the child, trying to explain as best I could.

“There’s a maternity and baby store three kilometers away. Just drop me off there. I’m not spying on you, Wyatt.”

When we arrived at the store, he didn’t even wait for the car to fully stop before pushing me out.

I stumbled, barely managing to keep my balance, almost twisting my ankle as I got out.

But I didn’t say anything. I just turned and walked straight into the store.

He watched me walk away, surprise flickering across his face.

Maybe it was because he had nearly made me fall earlier, but I could see the faintest hint of guilt in his eyes.

“You wait here when you’re done, and I’ll pick you up.”

Without giving me a chance to respond, he slammed his foot on the gas, and the car sped off, leaving me with a cloud of exhaust that made me dizzy.

After picking up the baby supplies, I stood there, holding the items, waiting for what felt like forever.

I waited so long that by the time the evening breeze picked up, I started to break into a cold sweat.

I remembered I had just finished my postpartum recovery period, and my body still wasn’t fully healed. I shouldn’t be exposed to the cold; it could lead to long-term health problems.

I dialed his number again.

The familiar voicemail message greeted me: “Sorry, the number you are trying to reach is currently unavailable.”

I called a ride, and when I got home and dropped the items off, Wyatt stormed in, his face twisted in anger.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were back? Do you know I almost got into an accident rushing to pick you up?”

I froze, wiping sweat from my forehead.

I’d called him countless times and sent him so many texts.

Now he was blaming me?

I stared at him, dumbfounded. “Didn’t you get any of my calls?”

He paused for a moment, then subconsciously rubbed his nose—his nervous habit whenever he felt guilty.

I didn’t need to say a word. I knew he’d blocked me before leaving.

Without another word, he calmed down and walked into the living room, presenting a bag like it was some kind of treasure.

“Here, I didn’t forget about Valentine’s Day. This is for you. It was really hard to get—had to beg a lot of people to order it for me.”

I took the so-called "designer bag" from him and gave it a quick once-over. I could tell right away it was a fake.

I had long given up on expecting anything from him, but in that moment, a wave of disappointment washed over me.

He didn’t care about me anymore. Using a cheap knockoff to brush me off—it hurt more than I cared to admit. Watching his clumsy performance, all I could feel was exhaustion.

One of the posts on my other Instagram account is a 9-grid collage recently uploaded by that karaoke girl, Nora Hawke.

One of the photos features a luxury handbag worth nearly $40,000.

And in the corner of the shot, there’s a gift box tied with a bow—exactly like the one Wyatt had pulled out earlier.

A lump formed in my chest. I felt like screaming at him.

But the words got stuck in my throat. I didn’t want to be that woman—the one who just lashes out.

I forced myself to calm down, speaking in the calmest tone I could manage: “Mm, thanks. Just leave it there.”

Wyatt, looking pleased with himself, said, “Do you like it? I picked it out just for you.”

I scoffed, not wanting to say a word, and turned to walk away.

His anger flared at my sudden coldness. His brows furrowed as he grabbed my arm. “When I don’t get you a gift, you throw a fit. Now that I actually get you something, this is the attitude I get? What do you really want from me?”

I looked at him, holding my throbbing head. “Think whatever you want.”

His blood pressure clearly shot up. His temples bulged, and he yelled, “Susan, what’s your problem?! I’m trying to talk to you calmly, and this is how you respond?”

I took a deep breath, trying to keep my cool, and said slowly, “So, what do you want me to do?”

He stared at me, his voice rising. “What do I want? I want you to understand me! I work my ass off every day for this family, don’t I?”

I couldn’t hold back anymore. Tears stung my eyes, and I snapped, “For this family? Is that why you gave me a fake bag and are yelling at me like this?”

For a moment, he was speechless, his face turning red, but then he stubbornly shot back, “So what if it’s fake? At least I got you a bag. Be grateful!”

I didn’t say another word. I stood up and walked toward the bedroom.

He didn’t follow me. Instead, he sat down and started scrolling through his phone.

As I closed the bedroom door, I heard him start a video call.

His sweet voice and muffled laughter drifted through the door.

Later that night, I heard him twist the doorknob. I opened my eyes.

My phone buzzed with a message notification.

[Susan, what’s the meaning of locking the door?]

[You want to sleep in separate rooms now?]

[Fine, don’t regret it.]

[Who would want to sleep with you anyway? Look at yourself now. Even if you stripped down and came to me, I wouldn’t be interested.]

I didn’t respond. I just stared at the ceiling until the sound of the doorknob stopped, and then I finally fell into a deep sleep.

In the past, when he wasn’t home at night, I’d toss and turn, unable to sleep.

Then, his return times started getting later and later, and my heart would grow more uneasy.

At first, I’d wait at home, then start calling around, checking if anyone had seen him.

If I couldn’t find him, I’d sit in the living room until dawn.

But now, holding my child, I felt a strange calmness.

It didn’t seem to matter as much whether he came back or not anymore.

The next day, I had the nanny look after the baby while I went out to consult a divorce lawyer.