On the day my mother died, my wife, Hannah Pruitt, took a tumble down the stairs. Just like that, our unborn child was gone.

While I drowned in grief, Hannah played the considerate wife perfectly. She squeezed my hand, voice soft. "Focus on Mom's funeral. I'll check myself into the hospital to recover. Don't worry about me."

She used her recovery as a shield. For a month, she barely set foot in our home.

Then came the day I visited a new café and casually exchanged WeChat contacts with the young man at the counter.

Later, I scrolled through his Moments. His feed was a shrine to vanity, tagged "Daily Life with My Rich Sugar Mommy." Every photo was a blatant flex of wealth.

I scrolled to a post from a month ago.

"Eight rounds in one night. She was satisfied as hell."

"She even got rid of that other guy's kid for me. Guess I need to work harder to make it up to her."

Beneath it, a comment:

"You're the best, babe. Come over tonight. I'm waiting."

The account belonged to Hannah Pruitt.

The timestamp: 1:00 a.m.—the exact hour I'd been sitting vigil for my mother. Alone.

I stared at the screen, blood turning to ice.

——

The phone buzzed. Hannah.

"Honey, I left a crucial company seal at home. I need it for a contract immediately. Can you call a courier?"

I found the seal. But I didn't call a courier. I drove there myself.

At her company, the receptionist blocked my path.

"Who are you here to see? Do you have an appointment?"

I paused. We'd kept our marriage low profile, but to be completely unrecognized in my wife's own building?

"Ms. Pruitt asked for this." I held up the seal.

The receptionist sneered at my plain clothes. "Hand it over. I'll pass it on."

I pulled back. "No. She requested I deliver it personally."

She rolled her eyes. "Ms. Pruitt isn't available. She's out with her husband. Wait in reception if you must."

Her husband.

My expression darkened as I walked to the reception area. It shared a wall with Hannah's office.

Outside, a group of female employees gossiped, voices carrying clearly.

"I really envy Ms. Pruitt. Her husband is so young and hot."

"Last time I walked past her office, the noise... Youth really does have stamina."

"Don't be jealous. Once you get rich, you can find yourself a boy toy too."

My fingernails dug into my palms until skin broke.

Moments later, voices drifted through the thin wall.

"Come on, let me handle the Nancheng project. Please, babe?" Adrian Dickerson, his voice dripping with sugar.

Hannah sounded strained. "No. You've only been running the café a few days. Business requires patience. We'll discuss the project later."

Adrian laughed—low, predatory. "Fine. But we still haven't christened the floor-to-ceiling window."

Hannah's voice turned flustered. "Stop it... not here. Someone could come in..."

Her protest was smothered by a wet, sickening sound.

I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply, fighting the urge to kick down the door. I pulled out my phone and silenced it.

My thumb hovered over an app I hadn't touched in years. I'd had a hidden camera installed in her office when she started the company—a security measure against harassment and disputes. I'd never used it to spy.

Until now.

I opened the live feed.

The image loaded. Rage surged through me, cold and sharp.

Against the panoramic window, two silhouettes merged in sunlight. Their movements were feral, uninhibited.

When the frantic motion ceased, Hannah pressed a kiss to the corner of Adrian's mouth. Her voice was thick with languor.

"Come with me to the auction tonight. That watch you've been eyeing? I'll win the bid and it's yours."

Adrian Dickerson's arm snaked around her waist, his tone possessive. "So, when are you going to have a baby for me, Hannah?"

"What's the rush?" She chuckled softly, her fingertips tracing the line of his jaw. "Have you forgotten? I already aborted his child for you."

He lowered his head, capturing her lips. "I know. You love me the most."

She leaned against his shoulder, her voice light but chillingly clear. "The Hensons have always looked down on me. Once I'm pregnant with your child... we'll claim it belongs to Aaron. Let them raise our baby."

A smirk played on her lips. "Besides, it's the least they owe me."

They straightened their clothes and left the office, the door slightly ajar.

I stepped out of the shadows in the hallway and into the room they'd just vacated.

A cloying, musky scent assaulted my senses—the smell of their intimacy.

I walked to her desk to place the official seal I'd brought, but my gaze snagged on a document left open. A business proposal, tailor-made for Adrian Dickerson. The terms were absurdly generous; it wasn't a partnership—it was a gift.

I stood there in silence, the paper trembling in my hand.

From the initial capital for her startup to this prime location and the luxury renovations, I had paved every inch of the road for her.

I never imagined that road would lead straight to another man's bed.

Sitting in my car, I dialed a number.

"That heart surgery you mentioned," I said, my voice flat. "I'll do it."

My friend Farley paused on the other end. "Why the sudden change? You know the risks—you have to go abroad, the specialist is elderly, and the schedule is brutal. You always said you couldn't leave your wife alone."

I stared out at the gray skyline. "I don't need to accompany her anymore. I'm filing for divorce."

Silence stretched between us.

"Farley," I said, my throat tightening, "I need a favor. Pull Hannah Pruitt's medical records. Specifically, her abortion history. Every detail."

"Consider it done."

Minutes later, my phone buzzed. An encrypted file appeared on the screen.

I opened it.

The records were clinical and cold. She had indeed been pregnant. But the very day after confirming the pregnancy, she had scheduled the abortion.

The date stared back at me like an accusation.

It was the day of my mother's funeral.

The "miscarriage" due to grief, the weeks of "recuperation"—all of it was a lie. A fabrication so she could sneak away to Adrian while I mourned my mother alone.

A red haze clouded my vision. My grip on the steering wheel tightened until my knuckles went white.

Farley's voice came through the speaker, hesitant. "Aaron? I also took a quick look at the financials. The funds Hannah's siphoned from your joint accounts and personal holdings over the last few years... plus the personal guarantees you signed for her company... the numbers are staggering. If you want to recover the assets, it's going to be a war. Do you want to pursue it?"

I looked up at the office building, seeing the lights of her company—my money—shining in the twilight.

"The house," I said slowly, my voice like ice. "Let her keep the marital home."

It wasn't a gift. It was a tomb for our marriage.

The moment I stepped through the front door of the villa, the doorbell rang.

A delivery man brought in a massive bouquet of red roses. The heavy, sweet fragrance flooded the foyer.

My chest seized.

The scent hit my airways like poison. My throat constricted, and a familiar, terrifying wheeze rattled in my lungs.

My phone rang. Hannah.

"Honey, happy third wedding anniversary! Surprised?"

Surprised?

She had actually forgotten.

I am severely allergic to pollen.

In the first year of our marriage, a minor exposure had sent me into anaphylactic shock. I nearly suffocated. Hannah had been hysterical, weeping by my bedside all night, refusing to sleep.

Three years later, she sends me a death trap.

I turned my head, gasping for air, and barked at the nanny. "Throw it out! Now!"

Evening fell, and the front door opened.

Hannah walked in, looking radiant. But she wasn't alone.

Adrian Dickerson stood beside her, oozing practiced charm.

"Hello, Mr. Henson," Adrian said, extending a hand with a natural smile. "I'm Adrian Dickerson."

I stood frozen, staring at the hand that had been all over my wife just hours ago.

Hannah beamed, her tone relaxed and innocent. "Honey, this is Adrian. He's a special consultant for my company. I had a bit too much to drink at a dinner meeting, and since he was on his way here, he kindly drove me back."

I kept my hands at my sides.

Adrian didn't seem to mind. A smirk tugged at his mouth, mockery glinting in his eyes.

Thunder rumbled outside, rattling the windowpanes.

Adrian flinched violently, clutching his head. "Ah!"

"What's wrong?" Hannah's voice pitched with panic.

He trembled, playing the part perfectly. "I'm so sorry... I have a severe phobia of thunderstorms." He sagged against the wall, legs barely holding him. "I know it's abrupt, but could I crash here tonight? If I go out in this weather, I might pass out."

Hannah turned to me, pleading silently.

Laughable.

"Fine," I said flatly. "We have plenty of guest rooms."

Her face lit up. She pecked my cheek. "Honey, you're the best."

Sleep was impossible. I lay in the dark, memories crashing over me.

Hannah and I had gone from college sweethearts to spouses. Despite my family's objections, I married her without hesitation. I funded her first venture, watched with pride as she built her career from nothing.

I never imagined she would stab me in the back.

The cracks had been there for months. About three months ago, she became glued to her phone, taking it everywhere—even into the shower.

On my birthday, she barely sat down before claiming the company website was under attack. She left immediately.

That night, Adrian posted a photo on social media. A city view from a five-star suite. Caption: Busy night. Big sis says her legs are sore.

Hannah had commented with a kiss emoji.

Later, when I was delirious with fever, she didn't answer my calls. Said she'd lost her phone. Yet Adrian's feed showed a hot spring resort. In the steam, two silhouettes were clearly visible.

Even when my mother died, Hannah used "needing quiet time to grieve" as an excuse and vanished. Meanwhile, Adrian's posts showed tangled hotel sheets and captions dripping with suggestion.

In the darkness beside me, Hannah's phone screen lit up.

"Aaron?" she whispered.

I kept my eyes closed, breathing steady.

Thinking I was asleep, she slipped out from under the duvet and crept from the bedroom, closing the door silently behind her.

I waited a beat, then followed to the landing.

The scene below turned my blood to ice.

Hannah pushed him away—though her voice was thick with want. "I knew you stayed on purpose... you have a one-track mind."

Adrian buried his face in her neck. "Can't stand being away from you for even a minute." His voice dropped low. "Isn't the thrill better this way? Don't you like it?"

They tangled together, abandoning all restraint.

No lights. In the gloom, they moved from sofa to dining table. The silence amplified every sound—every gasp—ending finally in Hannah's long, satisfied sigh.

I turned back to the bedroom, chest constricted by a pain sharp enough to kill.

The next morning, I walked downstairs.

They sat at the dining table, acting as if nothing had happened.

"Honey, you're up!" Hannah beamed. "Adrian made breakfast to thank us for last night."

"I'm not hungry." My tone was flat.

I turned to leave, but a flash of color in the trash caught my eye.

I froze.

Among the garbage lay the shattered remains of my mother's jade bangle.