Sitting in the study, my chest felt unbearably tight, as though an invisible hand was gripping my heart and squeezing relentlessly. The room, once a haven filled with books and memories of quiet evenings spent together, now felt suffocating.

I yanked open the desk drawer, hoping to distract myself by revisiting Alexa's book, Confessions of Love. My fingers brushed past a stack of papers and my breath hitched when I noticed a different manuscript.

The title glared at me like an accusation: A Thousand and One Confessions. Beneath it was a name I had never seen her use before—Nate.

My hands trembled as I flipped through the pages. Each line I read sent a chill down my spine. These weren't academic musings or romantic anecdotes. They were raw, unfiltered declarations of passion. The words bled across the page, dripping with yearning and desire—desire for a young man's body, for his touch, for his essence.

Tears blurred my vision and one fell, smudging the ink on the manuscript. How could this have happened?

This was the same woman who had sworn eternal devotion to me, who had once promised, with tears in her eyes, to walk hand in hand with me through life and death. Yet, hidden in plain sight, she had poured her soul out to another man under the guise of a pseudonym.

A sickening realization took hold of me. Nathan.

Driven by a mix of desperation and anger, I opened my phone and searched for his social media profile. It was private—nothing but a single dash where his posts should have been.

But then another idea struck me.

I turned to Alexa's laptop, which she had carelessly left open on the study desk. The familiar wallpaper of a scenic mountain range mocked me as I navigated to her social media account. I searched for Nathan's profile through her friend list.

And there it was—a treasure trove of posts I wasn't meant to see.

Pinned at the top was a photo. Nathan grinned at the camera, holding up a book in his hand. The caption read: [Thank you to my girlfriend for handwriting a book for me. I'm the happiest man alive!]

My stomach twisted. The comments section below buzzed with life:

[Nice!]

[Your girlfriend is amazing! She's just like Mrs. Colby—so loyal and devoted!]

[Love this! Nathan, teach us how to find someone like her!]

And amidst the sea of replies, Nathan had smugly commented: [My girlfriend is even better than Mrs. Colby!]

But what caught my attention was a small heart icon beside one of the comments. Alexa's account had liked it.

My hands balled into fists, my nails digging into my palms until I felt the sting of broken skin. I laughed bitterly—uncontrollably. My voice echoed in the empty room, a sound filled with anguish and disbelief.

This was the same woman who had always refused to exchange contact details with other men, who had said, "Sorry, I have a husband," with such conviction that no one dared question her loyalty.

Now, I realized it was all a performance. Every act of devotion, every boundary she claimed to draw—it had been a carefully constructed facade designed for my eyes alone.

***

Two hours later, Alexa returned. The front door creaked open and I heard the faint click of her heels against the floorboards. She stepped into the room with a radiant smile, her arms laden with a chocolate cake and a beautifully wrapped gift box.

"Harry?" she called softly, her voice honeyed and warm.

She walked in, her appearance immaculate. Her blouse was perfectly buttoned, her hair tidy, her cheeks glowing faintly from the cold air outside. It was as if nothing had happened.

She held up the cake, her smile widening. "Look what I brought! Your favorite chocolate cake. And guess what else?"

Alexa set the cake down and approached me, her steps light and confident. She slipped her arms around me from behind, pressing her cheek to mine. Her scent, once comforting, now felt suffocating.

"Ta-da!" She held out a sky-blue jewelry box, her eyes sparkling as she opened it to reveal an intricate watch. "Harry, do you remember this?"

I nodded faintly. How could I forget?

Three months ago, Alexa had designed this custom watch herself. She'd called it Starcatcher, a symbol of our "unique love." She had laughed as she described how it represented her devotion, saying she'd pluck stars from the heavens if that's what it took to make me happy.

Now, as I stared at the watch, all I could feel was a bitter sense of irony.

Alexa stepped closer, her delicate fingers brushing against my wrist. "Let me put it on you," she said softly, her voice full of tenderness.

I pulled my hand away, dodging her touch. "There's no rush. Since it's a birthday gift, let's save it for the day."

For a moment, her hand hung in the air, her expression faltering slightly before she quickly masked it with another smile. "Alright," she said cheerfully, as if my reaction hadn't bothered her at all.

But I noticed how her gaze lingered on me, searching for something beneath my calm facade.

She didn't find it.

The clatter of pots and pans echoed from the kitchen, mingling with the faint hum of a distant song Alexa often hummed while cooking. She moved with her usual efficiency, every motion precise, graceful. Yet, as I leaned against the doorway, observing her in silence, my eyes couldn't help but linger on the faint, scattered marks just below the collar of her neatly buttoned blouse.

Those marks weren't mine.

I turned on my heel, retreating down the hall. My chest felt heavy, as though an invisible weight pressed against my ribs. In the quiet sanctuary of our bedroom, I grabbed my phone and stared at the screen. The photo of us on the wallpaper—a candid moment from our honeymoon—felt like a cruel mockery now.

I scrolled through my contacts and selected Andrew's number. My brother's voice came through after a few rings, warm and familiar.

"Harry? It's been ages. What's up?"

"Andrew," I began, my voice strained but steady. "Is your research team still hiring?"

There was a pause, the faint crackle of the line betraying his surprise. "Finally decided to take the leap? What happened? Don't tell me you're actually leaving your precious wife."

I forced a faint smile, even though he couldn't see it. "She doesn't know. And she won't find out."

Andrew's tone shifted, more serious now. "Harry... are you okay?"

I hesitated, glancing toward the half-closed bedroom door. The distant clinks and clangs of Alexa still echoed from the kitchen. "I just need a change of scenery," I said at last, evading the question. "Can you help me with the paperwork?"

"Of course," he said, though his tone was laced with concern. "I'll send over the details tonight."

"Thanks." I hung up before he could ask anything further.

***

I didn't confront Alexa about the manuscript. What was the point? Two days later, my suspicions were confirmed when I saw a social media post announcing the release of A Thousand and One Confessions. The book, penned under her pseudonym had made its debut.

Nathan, ever shameless, had posted a triumphant photo of himself holding the book, his caption dripping with pride: [My girlfriend wrote this amazing book just for me! I'm the luckiest guy ever!]

The comments were a mix of envy and ridicule:

[Wow, your girlfriend wrote a book? That's impressive!]

[Sure, but she's just some nobody. Don't compare her to Mrs. Colby—she's in a league of her own.]

[Your girlfriend probably pulled strings to get it published. Not that big of a deal.]

Nathan's smug reply only added fuel to the fire: [My girlfriend is even better than Mrs. Colby!]

I stared at the screen. My lips curled into a bitter smile as I noticed Alexa's account had liked his post.

The following day, the buzz spread like wildfire across Carbel University. In her post at the university's website, Alexa openly praised the new book: [This is a beautifully written work. I highly recommend you read it. It's a masterpiece.]

Her endorsement exploded across the campus network.

[Wow, Mrs. Colby is recommending a romance novel? This I gotta see!]

[Did you hear? She said it's a must-read!]

[I'm buying it today—even if I have to live on instant noodles for a week.]

Of course, there were skeptics:

[Doesn't the writing style feel familiar? Kind of like her Confessions of Love—but rated R?]

[She'd never write something like this. She loves her husband too much to pen anything this scandalous.]

[She refused to sell out for another bestseller before. Why would she start now?]

But those doubts were quickly drowned out by eager admirers. I closed my phone, shaking my head. In this world, impossible doesn't exist.

***

Three days before my departure, I booked my flight. As I finalized the payment, I felt the warmth of Alexa's arms encircle me from behind. Her lips brushed softly against the nape of my neck, sending an involuntary shiver down my spine.

"Darling," she murmured, "what are you looking at?"

I quickly locked the screen, sliding the phone into my pocket. "Nothing important," I said casually. "Just deciding where to book dinner for my birthday."

Her smile widened, radiant as ever. "Oh, sweetheart, whatever you pick will be perfect. I'm taking the whole day off to spoil you. You deserve the best birthday ever."

I forced a nod, my expression unreadable. She had no idea about the encounter I'd had the day before.

Nathan had shown up at home, a copy of A Thousand and One Confessions in hand. His grin smug and his posture lazy.

"Mr. Colby," he said, "do you know who wrote this book?"

I said nothing, watching him with a cold, steady gaze.

"It's your wife, Alexa," he continued, holding the book up like a trophy. "She acts so in love with you in public, but it's all a sham. You're just part of her image—her brand."

He leaned closer, his grin widening. "She told me she's tired of you. Thinks you're old and boring. You know what she really loves?" He paused, his voice dropping to a whisper. "My young, strong body. If you don't believe it, let's see who she chooses tomorrow, you or me."

The morning of my birthday started with Alexa, with her usual charm, orchestrating a day of indulgence. She insisted on driving me around the city, taking me into boutique stores and piling up bags filled with neatly wrapped purchases. Her demeanor flawless, as though nothing could mar the surface of her perfect devotion.

But by mid-afternoon, hunger gnawed at me. "I think it's time for lunch," I said, glancing at her.

She beamed, leaning over to plant a soft kiss on my cheek. "Anything for my birthday boy. Let me take you somewhere special."

The restaurant was upscale and elegant, with soft lighting that glinted off crystal glasses and polished silverware. We took a table by the window, the city sprawling beneath us, bustling and alive. Alexa ordered with her usual flair, flipping through the menu with practiced ease, but just as the waiter left, her phone buzzed.

A slight frown crossed her face as she declined the call, only for it to ring again moments later. The sharp tone of the vibration cut through the hushed ambiance of the restaurant.

Her hand hovered over the phone hesitantly. "It might be urgent," she murmured, almost to herself.

The screen lit up and I caught the briefest glimpse of the message before she angled the device away. It was Nathan.

He sent a selfie of his chiseled abs with a message: [Mrs. Colby, I'm at the hotel. It's so hot here... I could use some help...]

Alexa's breath hitched, her fingers tightening around the phone as if it might betray her secrets aloud. She looked up at me, her expression quickly shifting into something apologetic, sincere.

"Harry..." she began, her voice soft, tinged with regret. "It's from the university. Something urgent has come up, so I need to leave. It won't take more than an hour and a half, I promise. I'll come right back and we'll continue celebrating your birthday."

Her eyes searched mine for understanding, a faint flicker of panic betraying her otherwise composed demeanor.

I held her gaze for a moment longer than she probably expected, before offering a faint smile. "It's fine. Go ahead."

Relief flooded her features. "You're the best," she said, leaning in to kiss me on the forehead. "Order whatever you like—I'll take care of everything when I get back."

***

Thirty minutes after she left, my phone vibrated. Nathan sent me a video and quickly I opened it.

The footage was shaky but clear enough. Alexa, breathless and hurried, undressing with fevered hands as Nathan stood waiting. She clung to him as though her very existence depended on it, her movements urgent, almost desperate. The sound of her murmured words—half-lost between gasps—sent a chill through me.

Below the video, Nathan's message read: [Harry, take a good look. This is your refined wife. Always so calm and collected with you, isn't she? But with me? She's wild. She's mine.]

My lips pressed into a thin line. Anger didn't rise—not the blinding fury one might expect. Instead, there was only an eerie calm as I saved the video, tucking it away like evidence in a courtroom trial.

I stayed long enough to finish the meal we'd ordered. Alone in the sea of tables filled with laughing couples and clinking glasses, I didn't feel an ounce of bitterness. By the time I walked out, my decision was clear.

Once returning home, I packed efficiently, years of shared possessions ignored in favor of my essentials. The pile of luggage by the door felt like freedom incarnate. I then uploaded the damning evidence to Alexa's public social media account. No need for captions; the evidence spoke for itself.

Finally, I left the signed divorce papers on the coffee table, powered off my phone and snapped the SIM card in half. Without a glance backward, I hailed a cab and disappeared into the city lights.