Alexa, my wife of six years, was affectionately nicknamed "Husband Worshiper" by her colleagues and students.

As a university professor, she was renowned not only for her academic prowess but also for her steadfast devotion to me. She never attended social gatherings, always preferring to spend her evenings with me. When male students dared to ask for her contact information, she would turn them down with a tone so cold it could frost over. "Sorry, I have a husband," she'd reply, as if that explained everything.

Her colleagues loved to tease her, saying she had set a new bar for modern love stories. Among her published academic works was a singular outlier—a book titled Confessions of Love. It wasn't meant for the academic world. It was meant for me. Our love story, lauded across Carbel University, was held up as a modern fairy tale.

But yesterday, I stumbled upon something that cracked the perfection of that story. I was tidying up the bookshelf in our study—a task Alexa usually insisted on doing herself—when I discovered it. Hidden between the pages of one of her older books was a photo.

The moment I saw it, my stomach churned. Alexa's shirt was partially unbuttoned, revealing her delicate collarbones and a hint of bare skin beneath. Her hands were bound at the wrists with a black necktie. Standing behind her, holding her waist possessively, was a shirtless young man. His grin was cocky, arrogant and all too familiar.

I knew him. It was the same male student she had once coldly rebuffed when he asked for her social media.

——

The door creaked open. My heart pounded, but I forced myself to remain calm, sliding the photo back into the book and pretending to leaf through its pages. Alexa wrapped her arms around me from behind, her warm breath tickling my neck as she teased, her voice still husky with sleep, "Harry, why are you up so early? Come back to bed with me."

I tensed as her hands brushed my arm, but I kept my voice steady. "Just organizing a little," I replied, not turning around. My gaze was fixed on the shelf, yet I felt the slight shift in her demeanor—the way her muscles stiffened for a fraction of a second. Her eyes darted to the book in my hands and a flicker of alarm crossed her face before she replaced it with a forced smile.

"Why the sudden interest in these old books?" she asked, her tone overly casual.

I set the book down on the desk, leaning against it to block her path to the damning evidence. "No reason," I said. "I just thought we could use some decluttering."

She stepped closer, her fingers brushing against mine as she picked up the book. Her smile remained sweet, but her grip on it was firm—possessive, almost.

"Darling, you don't need to worry about this. I'll take care of it later." Her tone was breezy, but there was a hint of strain beneath the surface.

With deliberate carelessness, she tossed the book into a drawer, her movements practiced but slightly rushed. Her eyes flicked to me, searching. "You didn't see anything just now, did you?" she asked.

My pulse quickened, but I met her gaze with a bemused expression. "See what?"

She exhaled softly, almost inaudibly, as if relieved. "Nothing important. Just some things I haven't sorted through yet." She moved to the shelf, adjusting a few books that didn't need adjusting. Her hands were steady, but I noticed the way her fingers lingered on certain titles, as if confirming their secrets were still safe.

Moments later, she turned back to me, her eyes alight with a carefully crafted cheerfulness. "What do you feel like eating today? I'll cook for you."

Her voice, warm and inviting, was the same as always. But the image from the photo lingered in my mind, impossible to erase. That confident, shirtless grin. The way her wrists had been bound. The intimacy of it.

I swallowed hard, forcing a smile. "I'm not really hungry. I think I'll go back and sleep a bit more."

Before I could leave, she stepped forward, wrapping her arms around my waist. She pressed herself against me, her cheek resting on my shoulder. "Then let me join you for a nap," she said softly.

When I woke up again, Alexa was in the kitchen. The faint aroma of garlic and soy sauce wafted upstairs, wrapping itself around me like a taunt. I walked to the landing, leaning against the railing as I watched her move.

She was by the stove, her fair, slender hands skillfully flipping the stir-fry in a wok. The sunlight filtering through the window caught the faint sheen of sweat on her brow, illuminating the strands of hair that had escaped her ponytail. She looked up and caught my gaze, her lips curving into a smile that could disarm armies.

"You little lazy cat, go wash your hands—it's time to eat," she said.

I stayed where I was, my arms crossed, studying her as if seeing her for the first time. For six years, Alexa had devoted herself to me—or so I'd thought. Every weekend, she would give our housekeeper a day off and personally cook for me, saying it was her way of showing love. Her care, her attentiveness, her unwavering loyalty—they were all a part of the Alexa I knew.

As I watched Alexa bustling around the kitchen, a twinge of guilt tugged at me. I leaned against the doorframe and said, "You don't have to work so hard, you know."

She glanced at me with a playful smile and tapped my nose with her flour-dusted fingers. "Cooking for my darling? That's not work—it's love."

Her words, so effortlessly sweet, brought a lump to my throat. Alexa had built her world around me—or so it seemed. Every little thing she did was deliberate, thoughtful. Because I once mentioned liking braised prawns, she made it a ritual to wake up early every weekend and visit the market for the freshest catch. The aroma of her cooking would awaken me, a comforting embrace that signaled the start of a perfect day.

But now, those gestures felt... suffocating. How could someone so attentive, so devoted, betray me?

The dining table was laden with an impressive spread: braised prawns, steamed fish, sautéed vegetables and a bowl of soup that was still gently steaming. As I sat down, Alexa didn't wait for me to start. She expertly peeled a prawn with her delicate fingers, placing the tender morsel on my plate. Her eyes sparkled with pride as she looked at me.

"Harry," she began, her tone light but hopeful, "the publisher scheduled a book signing for Confessions of Love next week. Will you come with me?"

Confessions of Love—the book she'd poured her soul into, chronicling our ten-year journey together. It wasn't just a bestseller; it was a symbol of our love story, immortalized in ink. Alexa usually insisted I attend every signing event, but this time, the thought of smiling and pretending everything was perfect felt unbearable.

I forced myself to take a bite of the food, but it tasted like ash in my mouth. Without looking at her, I muttered, "I've been really tired lately. I think I'll skip it."

The silence that followed was heavy. Then, Alexa's voice broke through, as gentle as ever. "Alright. Then I won't go either. I'll stay home and rest with you."

That caught me off guard. I looked up at her and for a moment, her unwavering love and devotion felt real again. Over the years, Alexa had always been fiercely protective of our time together. She avoided going out alone and when she had to, she tried to bring me along. If I couldn't accompany her, she'd cancel whatever plans she could.

People often teased her about it. "He's just your husband—what's the big deal?" they'd say. Or, "Harry's nothing special. Why are you so obsessed?"

Her response was always the same: "Harry is my everything."

That memory made me hesitate. "Since you've already promised the publisher, it wouldn't look good to back out," I said, my voice softer now.

But Alexa reached across the table, taking my hand in hers. Her eyes shimmered with sincerity. "Harry, nothing is more important than you."

In the end, I reluctantly agreed to go.

***

After dinner, while Alexa was tidying up the dishes, I found my thoughts drifting back to the photo. An uneasy itch grew in the back of my mind. I slipped away to the study, quietly opening the drawer where Alexa had placed the book earlier. My hands trembled as I flipped through the pages.

The photo was gone.

Before I could process the implications, I heard a phone ringing downstairs. I crept to the landing, peering down as Alexa answered. Her voice was hushed, her tone sharp.

"I told you not to contact me on weekends. I'm spending time with my husband."

A moment later, her demeanor shifted. Her eyes darted to the stairs and after confirming I wasn't around, she quickly dried her hands, grabbed her coat and threw it over her shoulders.

"Harry," she called out, her voice brisk but warm, "something urgent came up at the university. I need to head back for a bit. Don't touch the dishes; I'll clean them when I get back."

She was already halfway out the door before I could respond.

Alexa rarely worked overtime. She was efficient and meticulous, managing her time so she almost never had to be called in on weekends. As her hurried footsteps disappeared, an unsettling weight pressed on my chest.

I grabbed my coat and followed. While Alexa headed for the garage, I hailed a cab and parked discreetly at the curb.

"Please follow that car," I instructed the driver, my voice low.

The driver gave me a knowing look and nodded. "Don't worry, mister. I won't lose it."

Alexa's car weaved through the city streets before turning into the familiar grounds of Carbel University. I watched from a distance as she parked and walked briskly toward the teaching building.

Her pace slowed as she reached a secluded area just outside the building. I squinted, trying to make out what she was doing.

Then, a figure emerged from the shadows. A man.

My breath caught as I watched him stride confidently toward her. He stopped just inches away, his grin sly. "Mrs. Colby," he said, his voice carrying an unmistakable intimacy. "Why are you so late? I've been dying to see you."

Alexa didn't pull away. She let him slide an arm around her waist, though her expression was cautious. Her eyes darted around, scanning the area for anyone who might be watching. When she seemed satisfied, they were alone, she reached for his hand and clasped it tightly.

"Why didn't you tell me sooner that it's your birthday today?" Alexa's voice carried a mix of exasperation and tenderness. Her fingers brushed over the man's hand, her gaze warm and affectionate.

The man chuckled, his lips curling into a self-assured smirk. He tilted his head to look down at her. "How could I? You only ever think about your husband. I wouldn't want to distract you."

The words stung like a whip, but I couldn't tear my eyes away.

He lifted his hand, cupping the back of Alexa's head and leaned in. His lips met hers, unhurried yet commanding. For a fleeting second, Alexa froze, her eyes widening in surprise. Then, slowly, her eyelids fluttered shut and she melted into the kiss. Her arms rose to loop around his neck, pulling him closer as the kiss deepened with fervor.

I was paralyzed. My breath hitched and hot tears began streaming down my cheeks, unbidden and unstoppable.

The cab driver noticed, his glance in the rearview mirror filled with muted sympathy. He fumbled for a tissue, handing it back to me. "Don't take it to heart, mister. Women... well, they're all the same sometimes. If she's stepping out, maybe it's time you find someone, too."

His words barely registered. My world felt like it had shattered into a thousand pieces, each sharp fragment slicing into my chest. I stared numbly ahead at the figures before me.

Alexa, the woman I thought I knew better than anyone, was flush with desire. Her cheeks were tinged pink, her breaths quick and shallow. She clutched the man's collar, her trembling fingers fumbling to undo the buttons.

"Mrs. Colby," the man murmured, his voice low and intimate. His hand slipped beneath her blouse, tracing the curve of her back. "It's my birthday today. How about giving yourself to me as a gift?"

Alexa caught his wandering hand, her movements slow, deliberate. She chuckled softly, her tone indulgent. "Alright. But not here. Someone might see us."

Her words shattered what little hope I had left. She entwined her arms around his waist, her touch possessive, leading him toward the car. Their laughter echoed faintly in the stillness as they disappeared inside. Moments later, my car—our car—began to rock in a steady rhythm.

I couldn't watch anymore. Tears blurred my vision and my chest heaved with silent sobs. "Take me back," I choked out to the driver, my voice barely audible.

The driver hesitated, his concern evident. "You sure, mister? You look like you need some fresh air. Don't let it eat you up. No woman's worth ruining yourself over."

I said nothing, only slumping deeper into the seat.

***

By the time I stumbled back into the house, I felt like a hollow shell. My legs carried me to the study without conscious thought. The familiar room now felt foreign, its cozy ambiance mocking my pain.

I sank into the chair, my head in my hands. The image of the man's face burned in my mind. His name floated to the surface like an unwanted memory: Nathan.

Nathan wasn't a stranger to me. I had seen him before.

It was a stormy day, rain lashing against the windshield as I drove past Carbel University. A figure stumbled across the street, drenched and unsteady. I slowed, squinting through the downpour. It was a young man, his clothes plastered to his thin frame, his movements sluggish.

I couldn't just watch. I pulled over, lowering the window slightly. "Hey! Are you alright?"

He turned toward me, his face pale and hollow-eyed. Then, without warning, his legs buckled and he crumpled onto the pavement.

Panicked, I leaped out of the car and hoisted him up, guiding him into the passenger seat. He was shivering uncontrollably, his lips tinged blue.

Once home, I handed him a fresh set of clothes and a warm towel. "Nathan, right? I've heard about you—you're one of Alexa's students, aren't you?"

He nodded, his wide, doe-like eyes darting nervously around the room. I remembered his name from Alexa's student roster. She had mentioned him once, noting his difficult upbringing. Orphaned at a young age, he had been raised by his grandparents and had worked tirelessly to excel in his studies despite the odds.

When Alexa walked into the living room, Nathan froze. His gaze dropped to the floor, his hands twisting anxiously in his lap.

"Mrs. Colby," he mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper.

Alexa barely spared him a glance. Her focus was on me, as it always was—or so I'd thought. She crossed the room and slipped her hand into mine.

"Darling," she said softly, her eyes filled with warmth, "you shouldn't go out in such weather. You'll catch a cold."

Nathan sat stiffly on the couch, his gaze flitting toward us. For a brief moment, his expression shifted—an almost imperceptible flicker of longing. But I dismissed it at the time, brushing it off as admiration for Alexa's kindness.

Now, those fleeting glances, the subtle tension in his posture, took on an entirely different meaning.

How blind I had been.