Cayden Jenkins, the respected heir of the most prestigious family in Las Vegas, was renowned for his unwavering devotion to his wife.

For my birthday, he orchestrated a spectacle like no other. He purchased every last firework and rose in the city. As countless fireworks painted the night sky with brilliance, he leaned close, his voice tender yet resolute as he kissed me softly.

"My love," he murmured, "you will never have reason to envy another woman."

The vibrant red roses formed a majestic castle, their fragrance carried by the breeze up to the 33rd floor of our building. There, an unmissable declaration awaited: five bold characters gleaming in lights—[Kylie, I love you.]—a confession as grand as it was heartfelt.

When I fell ill with a fever, Cayden’s concern bordered on obsession. He threatened to summon every private doctor in the city to ensure my swift recovery. Our wedding photos even adorned the massive LED screens in the heart of the city, celebrating a love the world envied.

But moments ago, the foundation of that perfect picture cracked.

I was reaching for his coat to help him, an ordinary gesture of care. Something slipped out of the pocket and landed on the floor—a condom. Not just any condom, but the strawberry-flavored kind I despised.

——

I froze, the weight of realization sinking in.

For a fleeting second, I considered leaving it where it had fallen. But despite the knot forming in my chest, I bent down and picked it up.

The pink packaging gleamed softly in the light. A faint whiff of its greasy strawberry scent wafted up, sharp and cloying. My fingers trembled as I held it. Something about this packaging felt disturbingly familiar.

A memory surfaced, vivid and unbidden.

Last month, during a visit to Cayden's company, I encountered his newly hired secretary, Sydney. She had been carrying a courier box when she hurriedly brushed past me, distracted and flustered.

"Are you okay?" I asked instinctively as the box slipped from her hands, scattering its contents across the polished floor.

Startled, Sydney froze for a moment before quickly crouching down. I had already bent to help her gather the small, colorful packages when she noticed me.

"Mrs. Jenkins!" she stammered, her face turning crimson. "I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you."

Her reaction had been amusing then—harmless, even. As I handed her one of the packages, she snatched it back with a flushed face and a sheepish smile.

At the time, I had laughed inwardly. A young secretary buying something so personal at the office? How reckless and endearing.

But Sydney’s next words now cut through my mind like shards of ice.

"My boyfriend asked me to get these," she had said with a coy smile, her eyes glimmering with a hint of pride. "We go through them so quickly—every three or five days, we need a new box."

And then she leaned closer, a playful grin softening her tone. "Mrs. Jenkins, please don’t tell anyone. It’s our little secret."

The image of her flushed face and the identical packaging in my hand merged into a single, damning truth. My chest felt hollow, my hands and feet numb.

"Baby, what are you thinking about?"

Cayden’s voice jolted me back to the present. Fresh from his shower, he approached me, steam still clinging to his warm skin as he gently embraced me from behind.

His arms wrapped around me, but the chill in my body only deepened.

"Why do you look so pale?" he asked softly, concern lacing his tone.

I didn’t answer. My throat was dry, and the damning pink package felt heavier than ever in my hands.

Cayden’s brows furrowed as he pulled me into his arms, his voice laced with worry.

"What’s wrong, baby? Who upset you?" he asked, his tone rising with protectiveness. "Did someone at work make you angry? Just tell me, and I’ll fire them on the spot!"

I looked up slowly, meeting his concerned gaze. After six years of marriage, Cayden had always been this way—gentle, doting, and unwaveringly attentive.

Whenever I was even slightly unhappy, he’d buy every rose in the city to cheer me up or splurge on grand gestures like a private cinema just for me. He’d always go to extraordinary lengths to see me smile.

People often said he was the epitome of a wealthy man spoiling his wife, and they weren’t wrong. Sometimes, I even thought his devotion was excessive. I used to tease him about it, smiling helplessly.

"If you keep this up," I’d say, "you’ll end up like King Charles II of England. People will start calling me a femme fatale."

But Cayden would always brush it off, his eyes filled with tenderness as he held me close.

"If you're Cleopatra," he’d reply, "then I’ll gladly be Julius Caesar. He crossed the Rubicon for her, and I’d spend my entire fortune just to make my Kylie happy."

Those sweet words from the past still echoed in my mind, but now they felt like a cruel joke. People change. Or maybe they just reveal who they’ve always been.

The bitter thought tugged at the corners of my lips, forming a bleak smile as I raised my hand, holding the pink package between us.

"What is this?"

For a moment, Cayden’s expression faltered. Panic flickered in his eyes, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared. He forced a casual tone.

"Baby, where did you find that? I’ve never seen it before."

I pointed at the coat lying beside me. "It fell out of your pocket."

His face went blank for a second before he slapped his forehead in mock frustration. "Oh, that’s my fault! I must have grabbed it by mistake during the last team-building trip."

He smiled apologetically, his explanation came quickly.

"During the outing, a colleague ordered fried chicken, and I was thinking of grabbing a pack of disposable gloves. I must’ve picked this up instead and forgot about it. I must’ve accidentally brought it home without realizing it."

I locked eyes with Cayden, my silence cutting through the air like a blade. His gaze turned red, the vulnerability in his expression almost unbearable, as he pulled me into his arms. His voice trembled as he spoke, each word laced with desperation.

"Kylie, you don’t think this is mine, do you?" His eyes searched mine, pleading for understanding.

"After all these years, no one knows better than me how much you hate strawberry flavor. I’ve made sure nothing like that ever comes near you or this house. This… it can’t be mine."

He tightened his hold, his heartache tangible, as he pressed a gentle kiss to my temple.

"My dear, you are my life. Hurting you is unthinkable."

His clear, unwavering gaze met mine—earnest and free of deceit.

"If you don’t believe me, I’ll go back to the company right now, find out who this belongs to, and fire them on the spot."

He moved as if to leave, his resolve evident, but I reached out and caught the hem of his shirt.

"There’s no need," I murmured, forcing a faint smile to steady the storm within me.

He stopped immediately, his eyes scanning my face for reassurance. I met his gaze and spoke deliberately, my voice calm, each word a careful weight.

"I believe you wouldn’t lie to me."

Relief washed over him, softening his features. He smiled faintly and brushed his hand through my hair before heading to the kitchen. Without hesitation, he began preparing my lunch for tomorrow—a routine etched into our lives over six years of marriage.

From the second-floor railing, I leaned and watched him, his movements practiced and meticulous. This familiar sight once filled me with warmth. No matter how busy his day was, Cayden always made time to cook for me.

He’d wake early to pick fresh ingredients and personally prepare my meals, ensuring I had something homemade for work.

Colleagues would often tease me, "Mrs. Jenkins, with all your wealth, why not hire a private chef? Why let Mr. Jenkins waste his time in the kitchen?"

I’d laugh, repeating his simple response. "Kylie likes what I cook."

As long as I liked it, he’d do it without hesitation.

But now, watching him, my heart clenched with a dull ache. How could he forget?

On our wedding day, I’d looked into his eyes and told him just one thing, "If you ever cheat on me, don’t explain. Just admit it and leave."

I would vanish from his world entirely. No warnings. No farewells.

Thunder growled outside, a deep rumble that shook the glass. After ensuring I was asleep, Cayden tucked the blanket around me with painstaking care. His hand hovered for a moment, as if reluctant to leave, before he shifted to lying beside me.

Just as he was about to wrap an arm around me, my phone buzzed.

Under the dim glow of the bedside lamp, his brow furrowed as he glanced at the screen. His lips pressed into a thin line before his gaze flickered back to my face, peaceful and feigned in slumber.

Quietly, he slipped out of the room, his footsteps muffled by the thick carpet.

I strained to hear as his voice floated up from downstairs, low and clipped.

"I told you not to call me after work." His irritation was barely restrained. "If there’s something urgent, bring it up tomorrow at the office. Don’t disturb me and my wife—" A sharp pause. "What? You’re at my house?"

The call ended abruptly.

Moments later, the front door slammed shut.

I sat up, my heart heavy as I walked to the French window. From here, I had a clear view of the villa entrance. My eyes immediately landed on her—a young woman standing in the downpour, her dress soaked and clinging to her form like second skin.

The front door swung open, and Cayden stepped out, holding an umbrella. His expression was tense, but his voice was measured, almost cold.

"Why are you here? Didn’t I make myself clear? Don’t come near my house. Especially not in front of my wife."

The girl, Sydney, looked up at him with wide, glistening eyes, her lips trembling as though she was the victim.

"Cayden," she whispered, her voice breaking. "I’m afraid of thunder. I… I missed you."

Before he could respond, she rose on her tiptoes, her arms curling around his neck as she pressed her lips to his.

Cayden stiffened, the umbrella tilting slightly as rain cascaded onto his shoulder. One hand remained on the umbrella, but the other instinctively found her waist, steadying her.

"This is nonsense," he muttered, his voice firm yet lacking conviction.

But he didn’t push her away. He let her kiss him.

When she finally pulled back, he sighed, his brow furrowing slightly. Reaching out, he wiped the rain from her face with a tenderness that made my stomach twist.

"How did you get through rainy nights before you met me?" His tone carried a reluctant gentleness.

Sydney shivered, her soaked dress leaving nothing to the imagination. Her curves were on full display, and for a brief moment, Cayden’s gaze lingered before he quickly looked away. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard.

"You’re drenched," he said, his voice quieter now. "You’ll get sick if you stay like this."

She hesitated for only a moment before her lips curved into a delicate smile. "Cayden, can I come inside to take a shower?"

Faced with the girl’s plea, Cayden’s expression turned icy.

"No." His tone was resolute. "It’s too risky if my wife sees you here. I’ll take you to a hotel."

Without another word, he stepped inside, grabbed his suit jacket, and draped it over Sydney’s trembling shoulders. Then, with a practiced indifference, he tossed her the car keys.

"Wait in the car," he said curtly, handing her the umbrella before turning back toward the house.

Inside, his steps faltered as he approached the bedroom. He flicked the switch, but before the room could plunge into darkness, my voice broke the silence.

"...Don’t turn off the lights."

Cayden froze, his hand was still on the switch.

For a moment, he didn’t move. Then, slowly, he turned to look at me, his smile strained and unconvincing.

"Dear, when did you wake up?"

I sat up, feigning a drowsy yawn, and tilted my head at him. "Honey, what are you doing standing there? Why don’t you come to bed?"

My eyes lingered on his suit, the crisp lines a stark contrast to the pajamas he’d been wearing earlier. My brow furrowed.

"Weren’t you in pajamas just now? Did you need to go out for something?"

"No, not at all," he said quickly, his voice steady but his eyes too careful. "I was just trying on what I’ll wear tomorrow. Now I’ll sleep with my wife."

His attempt at nonchalance felt rehearsed, but I didn’t press further. Not yet.

He leaned down, brushing a hand over my hair. "Why don’t you sleep first? I’ll join you in a minute."

I shook my head and gave him a faint smile. "No, I’ll wait. I want to see you lie down beside me."

A flicker of unease crossed his face before he nodded. Pretending nothing was amiss, he changed back into his pajamas and slid into bed, pulling me into his arms with practiced ease.

"My dear," he murmured, his voice soft and warm, "your husband will hold you until you fall asleep."

I closed my eyes, letting his words wash over me. But no matter how tightly he held me, I couldn’t escape the image seared into my mind—the sight of him standing in the rain, allowing Sydney’s lips to touch his.

Sydney. The secretary who had been with his company for two years.

Before this, I never suspected that there was anything between Sydney and Cayden.

After we got married, Cayden made it clear—he only employed male assistants to reassure me. He ensured no woman ever got too close.

The day Sydney applied for a job was sheer coincidence. I dropped by the office to deliver some fruit to Cayden.

When I learned she wasn’t hired, I thought it was the end of the matter. But then Sydney collapsed on the ground, tears streaming down her face.

"Please, Mr. Jenkins, if I don’t get this job, I’ll die."

Cayden remained unmoved, his expression cold and distant. But then Sydney ran to the rooftop of the company, her voice ringing out in defiance.

"Cayden, I meet all the requirements! Why should I miss this job just because I’m a woman? I won’t accept it!" Her trembling voice carried an edge of desperation. "If you don’t hire me, I’ll jump right now."

The situation was spiraling. I could already see how this could tarnish the company’s reputation. Reluctantly, I urged Cayden to give her a chance.

From that moment on, Cayden treated her with strict professionalism, keeping her in a background role. He never softened, and I never saw a reason to doubt him. So when—when did this start?

My thoughts churned as I lay in bed with Cayden that night, holding his hand tighter than usual. He seemed distracted, his tension palpable.

At one point, he sighed softly, reaching for his phone. He typed quickly, the faint light casting shadows across his face.

I squinted, barely making out the message, "Sydney is in my car. Take her to a hotel—I can’t leave right now."

His assistant’s reply came swiftly. Cayden exhaled in relief, put his phone aside, and turned to me with a forced tenderness.

"Dear, sleep well. I’m here."

But sleep didn’t come easily.

The next day at the office, I sensed something was off immediately. The atmosphere was tense, uneasy. Sydney had caused a commotion, her desk a mess as colleagues hovered around her, trying to console her.

"Sydney, did you have a fight with your boyfriend?" one teased, their tone lighthearted.

"Why are your eyes so red and swollen? Don’t tell me your boyfriend kept you up all night?" another chimed in with a smirk.

"Enough nonsense!" someone else snapped, clearly annoyed. "Can’t you see Sydney’s upset? It must be her boyfriend’s fault. Men are all the same—horrible!"

At that moment, I walked in, and the chatter abruptly died. All eyes turned to me—and then to Cayden behind me.

Sydney’s red, swollen eyes locked onto him, a spark of something unreadable flashing across her face.

"You’re right," she said coldly, her voice sharp as a blade. "All men are bad. They’re all liars."

She lingered on those words, her tone deliberately ambiguous. Then, as if driving the point home, she turned to the male assistant, her behavior suddenly playful, almost flirtatious, clearly meant to provoke.