My husband suffered from violent mania—at the sight of red, he lost control.

Since our marriage, I've only dared to wear red twice.

The first time, he snapped, beat me until my head split open, and I needed thirteen stitches.

The second time, I was three months pregnant. He hit me so hard I lost the baby.

From then on, I never dared to wear red again. I was so afraid of provoking him that I dressed in nothing but pure white, from my undergarments to my outer clothes.

The day I was discharged from the hospital after my miscarriage, I held my aching stomach as I walked past a restaurant—only to see my husband, who was supposed to be working overtime, sitting with a young female student.

His eyes glowed with admiration, brimming with affection.

They couldn't hold back their feelings, and soon they were wrapped in each other's arms, dancing clumsily to the music.

At that moment, my phone rang. The doctor's voice was filled with excitement.

"Mrs. Tomlinson, regarding your husband's condition—we've finally developed a treatment..."

I stared at the girl's flaming red dress, a bitter smile tugging at my lips. "No need. The problem has already been solved."

——

"What? That's impossible! We've been researching for so long, trying to pinpoint the cause of Mr. Tomlinson's episodes. Now, after countless discussions among experts, we've finally come up with a solution—"

But his voice faded into the background.

Upstairs, the girl tripped over his foot as they waltzed, laughing as she leaned into him.

Tears welled in my eyes as a quiet laugh escaped me.

Perhaps the real problem was simple—I should never have been sitting in the seat of Mrs. Tomlinson.

I didn't wait for their dance to end. I turned and went home.

Opening my wardrobe, I gazed at the row of red dresses hanging inside.

Before I married, red was my favorite color. But because Raymond couldn't bear to see it on me, I locked them away, letting them collect dust in the dark.

But this time... I no longer wanted to play along with his acting. I no longer wanted to be the punchline of his cruel joke.

When he returned home, the first sight that greeted him was me—sitting calmly at the table, dressed in a scarlet gown, sipping coffee.

His face twisted in rage. In an instant, he lunged at me and clamped his hands around my throat.

"Didn't I tell you? You are forbidden to wear this color!"

His fist rose, ready to strike, but stopped midair. His face contorted in anguish.

I remembered the last time he told me he loved me—how he swore he was trying his best to restrain his instincts, to keep from hurting me.

So I smiled faintly, meeting his eyes. "Raymond. Didn't you say you love me? Then show me—prove you can control yourself for me."

The veins on his hand bulged, his whole body trembling.

In the end, he smashed a glass bottle instead, letting the shards cut deep into his palm before storming out.

I watched his retreating figure, my gaze turning cold. "See? You can control yourself."

The last time I wore red, he beat me until I miscarried.

When he saw me lying pale and broken in the hospital bed, he frowned deeply.

"I told you, didn't I? From now on, just wear white. No red. Never wear red!"

"You know I can't control myself when I see that color—it's a trigger, you've always known that!"

Seeing me cry silently, he finally softened, pulling me into his arms.

"Don't cry. This is my psychological disorder. I know it's unfair to you. But as long as you don't wear red, nothing will ever happen between us."

And I swallowed my pain, nodding obediently.

But that was before Dorothy appeared.

She made me realize just how much of a fool I had been, how completely I'd been played.

While his private doctor tended to Raymond's wounds outside, I quietly packed my suitcase inside the bedroom.

Perhaps the sound startled him, because he pushed open the door and stepped in, slipping his arms around me from behind.

"Why are you packing again? Another business trip?"

A flurry of kisses landed along the hollow of my neck.

My whole body went rigid, but I didn't push him away—I let him pretend, let him pour out his false tenderness.

"There's still a few things to wrap up. I need to be there," I murmured.

There was no real need to go on a business trip. I only wanted to stop seeing Raymond for a while.

He undid the buttons of my blouse with a hand that was both impatient and practiced.

"Maddy." His voice was hoarse. "Hold me tight."

He wanted me. He wanted to pin my hands above my head like he always did. I didn't speak; I pulled my hands free instead, stiff and careful.

He sensed something was wrong and opened his eyes.

"Maddy, are you still angry?" he asked.

As I stayed silent, he sank to one knee like he was reciting some ritual, suddenly solemn, and took a small box from behind his back.

"Bought you something new. See if you like it."

Inside was a simple white dress. The sight of it turned my stomach with a deep-seated disgust; everything about it felt fake. I set the box aside.

"Raymond," I said, steady. "Let's get a divorce."

His phone buzzed at that moment, several messages flooding in. He glanced down without thinking, and his face softened, full of the kind of indulgence he'd never shown toward me.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the contact name: "Dory." He was exchanging cheerful, intimate messages as if they'd known each other forever.

Only after he finished reading did he look up.

"Hmm? What did you say just now?"

It hit me like a punch into cotton. On his phone's lock screen was the video of Dorothy in that red dress, dancing. Whenever he saw that image, his expression went slack with adoration — an expression I had never once received from him.

...

When that girl, Dorothy, showed up holding a pregnancy test, I didn't hesitate. I slapped her across the face.

She hadn't expected it. She screamed and clawed at me.

"You bitch, Madeline! How dare you hit me? Wait until Raymond finds out—he won't let you get away with this!"

Hearing the commotion, Raymond barreled in, face suddenly ashen. He saw me gripping Dorothy's hair, forcing her against the wall.

"Madeline!" he barked, desperate, and yanked me back.

Rather than anger, a strange amusement spread across my face as I turned to him. "Hubby, this girl is a fraud—she's saying she's pregnant with your child. How could that be? For the money she once took, I'll teach her a lesson."

I swung my fist toward her stomach, but someone grabbed my wrist midair.

"Don't make a scene, Madeline." Raymond rubbed his temples, annoyed.

"You're stopping me?" I scoffed. Image was everything to him, his every posture calibrated for public display. This was the first time he'd stopped me without caring who watched.

"Raymond, what do you mean?" I pressed. "Is she telling the truth? Is that child really yours?"

I expected him to stutter, to invent a dozen excuses. Instead, he looked at me and frankly admitted it.

"Yes." He held my gaze. "The child is mine."

I threw the hardest, angriest slap I had left at his face. He didn't flinch; the handprint burned on his cheek, and for a long moment he didn't turn back toward me.

"Maddy—the night was a mistake." His voice was low and pained. "I thought she was you."

He swallowed and tried to explain, as if that made the betrayal smaller. "But the doctor said she can't terminate the pregnancy. If she aborts, she may never be able to have children again. I can't do that to her."

The words landed like another blow. He could find compassion for a stranger but not for me.

Raymond planted himself between Dorothy and me like a shield—his posture said everything. He would protect her, and that settled his position.

I thought back to the first time I'd questioned him, to the explanation he gave me then.

"Dorothy's just one of my students. She recently graduated and has been asking for career advice."

Aside from running a company, Raymond also taught as a guest professor at a university. A professor helping a student was normal enough. But I had seen the résumé he'd hidden under his desk. He'd already brought Dorothy into the company.

If it were merely a mentor-student relationship, I could have let it be. But then I remembered seeing Dorothy in that red dress—dancing with him, pressing her lips to his. At that moment, I wanted to snap every branch from the trees along the road.

"Maddy, weren't you supposed to be on a business trip?" he asked, brow furrowed as he tried to calm everything down. "Let's go home and talk this over."

I shrugged him off coldly and stared at Dorothy's scarlet dress. "You always said red makes you lose control. Are you blind? Don't you see her? She's in bright red."

"Raymond, do you remember what happened the last time I wore a red dress?" I asked. "I'd just found out I was pregnant and wanted to wear red to celebrate. You grabbed me—you hit me so hard I miscarried and ended up in the hospital. Have you forgotten?"

He looked at me, eyes heavy with exhaustion and helplessness. "I've said I'm sorry."

"Madeline, are you still holding onto this? How long are you going to make a scene?" His voice was narrow, irritated.

"Make a scene?" The word tasted bitter, and I laughed without humor. "That was a life we lost. Don't tell me I shouldn't make a scene."

"Either you send this woman to the hospital to terminate the pregnancy," I said, voice steady, "or you use your own life to pay for it."

Dorothy, hiding behind him, began to sob and grab his sleeve. "Raymond—please! I don't want to terminate the pregnancy!"

Raymond held her hand and soothed her. "I'm here. Don't be afraid."

His stance never wavered—no one could touch Dorothy while he stood there.

"I said she couldn't have an abortion," he solemnly said, then dropped to one knee as if trying to coax me. "I give you my life. Do whatever you want—okay, Maddy?"

Once again, it was that same hypocritical act of self-sacrifice, staged for others to see. I swallowed my disgust and forced a bright smile.

"All right." I reached for the vase beside me.

Dorothy’s terrified screams rang out as I hurled it toward Raymond.

“Don’t hurt Raymond!"

The vase hit her in the back first—she stumbled and fell against him. Blood drained from his face, inch by inch.

"Dory—" he cried, panic shredding his voice as he scooped her up in his arms. "Don't worry. I'll get a doctor!"

He shot me a cold glare—pure, unyielding hatred. In that instant I understood: Raymond would never let me go.

But I had planned for this.

Hidden nearby, a reporter had been waiting—camera rolling, every moment captured. Tonight, the footage would go out as an exclusive.

Raymond, why must you always take whatever you desire, only to toss it aside when it no longer pleases you?

I am not an object.

This time, I would make sure you learn the price of your mistakes.

Sure enough, two hours later the headline trended everywhere:

#Raymond Tomlinson Two Timing—his betrayal splashed across the feed, a spectacle for the world to see.