Carolyn, how far have you gone with him actually?

I sat in the study, his voice echoing in my mind. I recalled accompanying Carolyn to the distillery but never seeing a man surnamed Billie. 

In the end, I messaged my childhood friend and ordered him. [Help me check if Rollins Winery still has Carolyn’s name on it.]

I suppressed the fear in my heart, my hands trembling as I typed. [I need all of Carolyn’s financial transactions and recent itinerary.]

Tears welled up in my eyes, but I stubbornly refused to cry, staying rational. [Carolyn might be having an affair.]

 I just clicked send when Carolyn’s voice came from behind me. “Hubby.”

 Carolyn walked up to me; her face flushed with guilt.

“There's an urgent issue with a project at work," she said, looking at me with a troubled expression. “I promised to stay with you, but I can't resolve it here. I have no choice but to go."

She hugged me apologetically.

“I'll come back as soon as I finish," she said, holding her phone, which was lit up. 

I saw the chat window was still active, but I finally gripped her hand tightly and asked, “Can't you just not go?"

At any other time, Carolyn would have sensed the emotion in my voice, seen the vulnerability in my eyes and noticed it.

But she didn't. She was focused on leaving and on WhatsApp, patiently explaining, “I’ll be back soon. Don’t worry.”

Her tone grew anxious, “Hubby, you're usually so understanding. So please, don't make this hard for me."

I felt like a deflated balloon, sitting there motionless as Carolyn hurriedly left without even saying goodbye. 

Tears finally fell from my eyes and I silently wept. I had finally realised that all cats steal fish.

My childhood friend called me and said, “Rollins has a project that Carolyn actively secured funding for and launched. There's something fishy about this."

My childhood friend sent me the documents.

“Everyone at Rollins is saying that Carolyn spent a fortune to promote someone and no one dares to joke about that guy anymore."

My childhood friend’s voice turned cold as he continued, “I heard Rollins is planning a celebratory banquet at the Red Hotel.”

I immediately asked, “Carolyn isn't going, is he?"

But my last shred of hope was completely shattered.

I looked at the dinner that my wife had prepared and laid out on the table: the peeled shrimp, my favourite soup and the roses placed beside them. 

Suddenly, I remembered what she had said, 'Hubby! Did you forget? Today is actually our wedding anniversary!”

On our wedding anniversary, Carolyn chose someone else, leaving me alone. 

I had told her I didn't want her to go and that I wanted to stay with her, but she still left me. 

She still went to see the person she cared about more.

“I'm going to the Red Hotel," I told my childhood friend. “Even if the marriage has come to an end, I want to know what kind of person I lost to."

When I saw the boy sitting next to Carolyn, playfully calling her “Carol,” he seemed so ordinary that I wouldn't have remembered him if I had seen him on the street. 

He had no style, dressed plainly and his haircut was careless, too. 

He was hugging her arm and laughing. “Carol, they’re trying to get me drunk.”

The boy, spoiled by his parents' favor, pointed at the bosses sitting at the table. 

“I told them my Carol is a queen who will protect me, but they didn't believe me. They insisted you come and talk to them yourself."

In the private room, those people laughed and flattered him, “No wonder Billie has such good taste. He either doesn't pick or picks someone as valuable as this."

"Mrs. Stafford spent a fortune on Billie. Everyone in the industry praises Mrs. Stafford for loving her kingdom more than handsome men. Hahaha!”

“Exactly,” said the portly man, picking up his glass. “Billie, why don't you join us in toasting Mrs. Stafford?”

I stopped in my tracks, my hand frozen mid-motion to open the door. 

Carolyn was allergic to alcohol and never drank. Even during social gatherings, I always stood in front of her to take the brunt of the drinking. 

I looked at the wine glass on Carolyn's table and at Billie, who was acting coy, “I'm not drinking. Our Carol wouldn't want that."

“Is that right?"

Billie clung to Carolyn's arm and to my surprise, Carolyn actually picked up the glass, her expression calm as she looked at the man.

“Billie doesn't drink. Since we're toasting, why don't I drink with you, Sir?"

I watched Carolyn down the glass of wine. 

The private room erupted in cheers and Billie, flushed, praised Carolyn as a hero. 

Carolyn smiled affectionately and pinched his cheek, making my body feel as though it had been sliced by a rusty, dull knife, leaving gruesome, terrifying wounds.

I watched myself become riddled with holes, still hoping maybe there was some misunderstanding.

But then, my childhood friend steadied me as I swayed on my feet, ready to charge in and confront Carolyn, “I’m going in to tear that bastard apart.”

I stopped my childhood friend, pulled out my phone and dialed Carolyn's number. 

I clung to a sliver of hope, wanting her to give me an explanation, to tell me if there was something else going on. 

I watched as Carolyn picked up the phone on the table, her expression complex as she looked at Billie.

Seeing that, Billie immediately hung up without hesitation, hugged her arm and reminded her, “You promised to stand up for me, right?"

Billie stared stubbornly at Carolyn, “Right, Carol?”

I stubbornly dialed Carolyn's phone repeatedly, making the screen on the table lit up and then went dark, then lit up again until finally, Carolyn made her decision. 

“Alright, I'll stay with you today."

After that she hung up and flipped her phone face down, completely blocking my calls. 

Billie broke into a wide smile becoming the final straw that broke my heart.

I almost lost my balance, but managed to squeeze out a shred of rationality from my grief to tell my childhood friend. “Surveillance."

“Check the surveillance," I said, my voice trembling as I pointed upward at the surveillance camera, “Save it for me. I need evidence."

As I watched the surveillance footage and Carolyn's face grow pale, I told my childhood friend, “Since Carolyn has made her choice, I won't let her get away with it."

As I got into my childhood friend's car, my childhood friend pulled up all the documents.

“I think you should see this too.”

The document was about Billie's Little Red Book. It was like a vast web, weaving the love between him and Carolyn—a love that never included me.

I watched the video they recorded last month while she was on a business trip, showing Billie sitting in my Porsche.

In the video, he smiled brightly as he said, “What should I do, everyone? My wife's car broke down, so I bought a new one—the latest model. I secretly prepared a surprise for her."

He recorded the navigation voice and then made a shushing gesture toward the camera. 

“Guess what, will she like this surprise? Will she also buy me some cookies then?"

I suppressed my disgust and kept scrolling down, seeing that on the day I had my follow-up appointment at the hospital, Billie was at the same hospital as me, holding a lab report, looking smug.

“The main package is here for another sperm quality check!"

“Everyone, please guess with me. Will it pass this time?" He chuckled, “If it passes, I can become a dad!"

“He really is a bastard!" My childhood friend angrily slammed the steering wheel, but I no longer felt the initial anger and pain of betrayal. 

I calmly told him.

“Carolyn is infertile."

Carolyn and I have been married for years and having a child had been our biggest unresolved issue. 

We had seen doctors, but every one told us the same thing. Carolyn had polycystic ovary syndrome, so becoming parents would be a long and challenging journey.

That was why, over the years, I had been running to hospitals, all to fulfill Carolyn's dream of becoming a mother.

Now, as I watched Billie say, “My wife said that if this match is successful, she’ll give me a villa as a reward. Everyone, do you think it is better for me to take the money or the real estate?”

Little Red Book was filled with posts about Billie and Carolyn’s loving daily life and it also clearly recorded the expenses she had incurred for Billie—astonishing amounts that were beyond my imagination. 

Even the wine factory project was unanimously opposed by the shareholders, but she insisted on going ahead with it.

When I gathered these items to negotiate with Carolyn, I received a call from the hospital.

It turned out that Carolyn had alcohol poisoning and was seen by a senior I knew from university. 

He instinctively thought of me and asked me in a hesitant tone, “Have you broken up with Carolyn?"

My senior told me in a roundabout way, “Actually…There was a man crying and begging us to save Carolyn. I thought…”

I smiled and asked him if he could help me out, then I saw that Billie had updated his Little Red Book with a new post.

Carolyn was pale and hooked up to an IV drip, while Billie had tears streaming down her face.

“My wife drank a lot of alcohol for me, even though she knew she was allergic to alcohol. It makes me love her more!"

In the video, Carolyn kept showing one hand. 

If it weren't for those hands that held me every night, if it weren't for our childhood friendship, if it weren't for... how could I possibly believe Carolyn was lying to me?

I gave Billie a thumbs-up and commented, [What a coincidence! Your wife's wedding ring is exactly the same as mine.]

I posted a photo and wrote, [My wedding ring was designed and chosen by my wife herself. I never expected my wife and your wife’s ring to have such similar tastes.]

The comments quickly sparked a wave of reactions.

It was directly pushed to the top comments and Carolyn's call came in. 

"Hubby, I'm working overtime at the office and I might not make it back in time," she explained to me in a weak voice. “Don't wait up for me. Go to sleep first so I won't worry.”

Carolyn was still trying to cover it up, using the excuse of doing it for my own good, hoping I would keep living in her lies. 

As I listened to her voice, the comments exploded. Many people who followed my account uncovered numerous similarities between me and Billie’s, including the Porsche I specifically took a photo of.

The comments were all discussing whether it was a situation where two men were sharing one wife, or if there was definitely a third party involved.

I pretended to be shocked. [That shouldn't be the case. My wife and I have been married for seven or eight years. How could I be the mistress?]

I pretended to be innocent and responded on the phone, “Wifey, someone called me a mistress. What should I do?"

On the phone, Carolyn remained silent for a long time, watching Billie fiercely debating in the comment section of the hospital room, then tried to comfort me, “Who dares to say that? Once I’m done, I will confront them first."

“No need," I said with a laugh, pushing open the ward door under Carolyn's blank expression, “Since someone called me a mistress, I should clarify, right?"

I held up the live stream camera, pointing it at Carolyn and Billie in the ward and explained, "This is my wife!"

I feigned surprise and looked at Billie. “What are you doing here?”