Your wife is sleeping in my bed right now!

The photo showed Louise Sullivan, eyes closed, asleep.

Every inch of exposed skin was covered in marks left by passion.

When I received that taunting text and the photo, I was standing in the kitchen, simmering a nourishing soup for Louise.

Today was our fifth wedding anniversary.

But as the workday wound down, Louise had called with an apologetic tone—something urgent had come up at the office. She needed to work late.

Now I knew the truth.

Her "overtime" had taken her to another man's bed.

And there I'd been, worried she'd been pushing herself too hard lately with all the extra hours. Going out of my way to cook something that would help her recover her strength.

The angle of the photo was deliberate.

It captured the hotel logo and the room keycard with surgical precision.

Whoever sent it wanted me to see this in person.

My expression didn't change. I poured every last drop of soup down the drain.

I grabbed my car keys and drove straight to the most exclusive hotel in the south side of the city—The Platinum Hotel.

……

Not a single red light.

I arrived at the hotel and took the elevator directly to the couple's suite: Room 1806.

The door was ajar.

Inside, roses everywhere. Champagne. A cake.

Every detail dripping with romance.

Splash—

Water sounds, coming from the bathroom.

Then a woman's playful, coy whine:

"Stop it, you're so bad! You're getting water all over my face..."

My hand tightened on the door handle.

That voice.

I'd listened to it for five years.

It was my wife. Louise Sullivan.

"Ha! You know what they say—girls love a bad boy. And you love how bad I am, don't you?"

The man's voice was teasing, the last syllable curling upward with a smirk.

I recognized that voice too.

Bill Henson. Louise's so-called sworn brother—no blood relation whatsoever. The self-proclaimed free-spirited artist.

Inside the round bathtub, rose petals floated on the churning water.

Louise wore nothing but a revealing set of black lingerie, her hands draped over Bill's shoulders.

Bill was shirtless, one arm wrapped around her waist.

The two of them laughed and splashed without a care in the world.

Bill pressed his mouth to Louise's neck and sucked hard, leaving a vivid red mark.

"Hey—not there. If he sees it, he'll get suspicious."

Louise swatted Bill's chest with a look of mock displeasure.

Bill just chuckled, utterly unconcerned.

"Who cares? Julian Gilbert is a complete idiot."

"Raised my son for five years and still thinks he's father of the year."

His eyes gleamed with satisfaction as he spoke.

"Come on, babe. I can't wait any longer."

He pulled Louise beneath him—

My grip on the door handle turned white-knuckled.

I didn't move. Didn't breathe. Just stood there, frozen, hand locked around the handle.

Raised my son for five years.

The words replayed in my skull, over and over, like a serrated blade twisting deeper into my chest with every repetition.

They were so lost in each other that neither one noticed me standing in the doorway.

Not until a sharp crack split the air—the door handle snapping clean off in my fist.

Louise and Bill froze mid-motion. Both heads turned toward the door in unison.

The moment Louise saw me standing there, her pupils contracted to pinpoints.

"H-honey?"

The flush hadn't faded from her face. Her eyes flickered with the unmistakable panic of someone caught in the act.

The lecherous grin on Bill's face turned to stone.

A heartbeat later, he dropped into his usual act—the one he always wore around me—hunching his shoulders, lowering his head, the picture of timid submission.

As if I terrified him beyond reason.

After a flash of panic, Louise recovered fast.

She leaned forward, shielding Bill's trembling body behind her own.

"Julian, what is that look on your face? Look at what you've done to Bill—you've scared him half to death!"

I'd just caught Louise in bed with another man.

No explanation. No guilt.

Instead, she shielded her lover without an ounce of shame.

Behind her, Bill slowly lifted his head. The fear on his face had already vanished, replaced by a smirk aimed squarely at me.

But the instant Louise glanced back at him, the terror snapped right back into place.

Watching Louise hover over him like a mother hen guarding her chick, something inside me went cold—completely, irreversibly cold.

"What's wrong with the way I'm looking at you?"

"And don't you think you owe me an explanation?"

"You told me you were working overtime. So how exactly did you end up in your 'little brother's' bed?"

Louise's eyes flickered—two rapid, involuntary blinks.

But the guilt was swallowed almost instantly by indignation, as though she were the one who'd been wronged.

Her head snapped up, bristling like a cat whose tail had been stepped on, her voice shrill enough to cut glass:

"Julian! What the hell are you talking about?!"

"Following me is bad enough, but now you're going to slander me too?"

"Five years! Five years together, and you can't even give me the most basic trust?!"

I nearly laughed. I actually nearly laughed.

She hadn't addressed a single word of her own deception. Not one. Instead, she'd flipped the entire thing on its head, piling every ounce of blame onto me—as though the one in the wrong wasn't the cheating wife, but the husband who'd uncovered the truth.

Trust.

I turned the word over in my mind, and it felt like the punchline to the worst joke of the century.

"You're the one who lied to me first. And now you want to lecture me about trust?"

Louise faltered, her mouth opening and closing. Then she stiffened her neck and barreled on:

"So what if I lied to you?"

"Do you have any idea how much pressure I'm under every single day? And what do you do? Cook. Clean. That's it. What else have you ever done for me?"

"Bill and I grew up together. He's family to me. He's like my brother!"

"He felt sorry for me and wanted to give me a professional spa massage so I could relax for once!"

"How does that become something filthy in your eyes?"

Every word rang with righteous conviction.

If it weren't for the trail of intimate red marks covering her skin, I might have almost believed her.

"Julian... you really have the wrong idea. I—I just thought Louise has been working so hard lately, and I wanted to help her unwind..."

Bill peeked out from behind Louise, half his face visible, his voice small and trembling.

"There's nothing between us. I swear. I would never have any inappropriate thoughts about her."

He spoke carefully, watching me the whole time—as if I were some kind of monster that might devour him alive.

A cold laugh escaped my throat.

"A misunderstanding? No inappropriate thoughts?"

"Do you even believe the words coming out of your own mouth?"

I stared at him with open contempt.

No inappropriate thoughts—and yet he'd sent me photos of them in bed together just to provoke me?

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. It's all my fault. Please, Julian, don't fight with Louise because of me."

Bill's eyes reddened at the rims, making him look like a wounded puppy begging for mercy.

He made a show of trying to stand, but his gaze slid sideways—a furtive glance toward Louise.

Right on cue.

And she didn't disappoint.

Bill's pitiful act hit Louise right where it was meant to. Sympathy flooded her face, and with it, a fierce surge of protectiveness.

She threw an arm out to stop him, then whipped around to glare at me.

"Julian, are you done yet?!"

"Look at yourself right now. You're acting like a jealous lunatic—do you even realize that?"

"Apologize!"

"Julian, I want you to apologize to Bill—right now!"

Louise didn't bother hiding the disgust in her eyes when she looked at me.

Bill, meanwhile, wore nothing but a smug grin.

Watching the two of them put on their little "devoted siblings" act, I couldn't help but laugh.

"Apologize... sure..."

I nodded.

The next second, under Louise's disbelieving stare, I grabbed the bottle off the table and smashed it over Bill's head.

Crack!

The bottle shattered on impact.

Crimson blood mingled with liquor, streaming down his face.

"Ahhh—!"

Bill clutched his head and let out a shrill, pig-like wail.

"Julian, you've lost your mind!"

Louise was livid. She rushed over with a towel, pressing it against Bill's wound, pulling him into her arms like he was something precious.

"It's okay, Bill. I'm here."

Bill's eyes rimmed red, his voice thick with pitiful, choked-back sobs:

"It's my fault, Louise. I'm the one who upset him. Please don't blame him."

Even now, Bill was still playing the innocent martyr.

Louise held him tighter and whipped around to snarl at me:

"You're an unreasonable lunatic, Julian."

"I want a divorce."

"Fine. I agree."

My voice was flat. Not a ripple of emotion.

Louise froze, clearly not expecting me to agree so easily.

Under her stunned gaze, I turned and walked out of the room.

On the drive home, I contacted a private investigator.

My instructions were clear:

"Look into Louise Sullivan. The past five years—every movement, phone record, transaction, anything you can dig up. The more detailed, the better."

I opened the front door. My five-year-old son, Alvin Gilbert, was in the living room playing with his toys.

"Daddy, what's wrong?"

He looked up at my expression and asked with concern.

I smiled and ruffled his hair.

Looking closely, Alvin didn't really look like me. He resembled his mother—Louise—much more.

But for the past five years, I'd trusted Louise completely. I had never once questioned Alvin's parentage.

Now, though, I'd heard that conversation with my own ears.

And suddenly, I couldn't bring myself to look this child in the eye—this child I'd raised with my own hands.

I pretended to pick something off his head and plucked two strands of his hair.

I called a same-day courier and sent the hair samples to two different paternity testing centers.

Rush orders. Both of them.

The wait was agonizing.

The moment the results came in, every nerve in my body pulled taut. My heart hammered without rhythm.

I opened the electronic report.

Skipped past everything else. Went straight to the last page.

Based on DNA analysis, the probability of excluding Julian Gilbert as the biological father of the submitted Alvin Gilbert is 99.99%.

Two reports. Same result.

"Ha... haha..."

A bitter, hollow laugh escaped my throat.

Five years.

One thousand eight hundred and twenty-five days.

I had poured everything I had into Louise, into Alvin, into this family—every ounce of devotion, every shred of effort I possessed.

And in the end, I was nothing but a fool who'd spent five years raising another man's son.

Bill was right.

I was a goddamn idiot.

Raising someone else's kid and feeling proud of myself for it.

There probably wasn't a bigger fool on the face of the earth.

I wondered how Louise and Bill laughed about me behind closed doors.

Rage. Humiliation. Bitter refusal to accept it—all of it crashed together inside my chest.

My fists clenched until my knuckles went white.