My wife suffered from violent mania—whenever she saw the color red, she would lose control.

Since our marriage, I had only wore red twice.

The first time, she flew into a frenzy and smashed my head open. I needed thirteen stitches.

The second time, she attacked me again, but this time she was three months pregnant. In the struggle, she miscarried.

From then on, I never touched red again. Afraid of triggering her, I wore nothing but plain white, from head to toe.

On the day she was discharged from the hospital after the miscarriage, I clutched my stomach and passed the restaurant—only to see her there, dining with her male assistant when she was supposed to be working overtime.

Her eyes sparkled with admiration, love overflowing from them.

The two leaned into each other, arms entwining, bodies swaying as if the world belonged to them alone.

Just then, my phone rang. It was the doctor, his voice brimming with excitement.

"Mr. Flores, regarding Ms. Lopez's condition—we've finally developed a treatment..."

But as I stared at the man’s blazing red shirt reflected in the glass, I felt a bitter smile curve my lips.

"No need." I whispered. "The problem has already been solved."

——

"How is that possible? We've studied her case for so long, and never able to identify the root cause! It took a team of experts to finally propose a viable solution—" the doctor rambled, exhilarated.

But I slowly raised my eyes.

Upstairs, the man was clumsily waltzing, stepping on Rosalia's toes.

For the first time, I laughed—laughing until tears burned my eyes.

Maybe the problem was never the color red. Maybe the problem was simply that Rosalia had fallen in love with someone else.

I didn't wait for their dance to end. I turned and went home.

Opening the closet, I stared at the row of red suits that had gathered dust.

Before marriage, red had been my favorite color. But because Rosalia claimed she couldn't bear to see me in it, I locked it all away.

But this time—I was done playing her game.

When she returned home, the first thing she saw was me sitting calmly on the sofa, dressed head to toe in a crimson suit, sipping coffee.

She lunged forward, her fingers clamping down on my throat.

"Didn't I tell you? You're not allowed to wear this color!"

Her fist trembled, about to strike. But she stopped mid-air, her expression twisting in pain.

I remembered her once telling me she loved me—that she was doing her best to suppress her instincts, to keep from hurting me.

My lips curved in a faint smile as I looked straight at her.

"Rosalia," I said softly.

"You said you loved me. Then show me—prove you can restrain yourself, for my sake."

Her hand shook, veins bulging across her knuckles.

At last, instead of hitting me, she smashed a wine bottle, slicing open her own palm before storming out.

I watched her back disappear into the night, my eyes turning cold.

"You see? You can control yourself."

The memory of that second miscarriage came flooding back.

I had accidentally worn red that day, and she had attacked me without warning. In the struggle, she lost the baby.

I sat beside her hospital bed afterward, guilt gnawing at me, watching her pale face twisted in pain.

"I told you already," she rasped, "just wear white. Never wear red again. You know it sets me off!"

"Sorry..." I muttered. "I just wanted to celebrate..."

Tears streaked down my face. She saw my remorse and pulled me into her arms.

"Don't cry," she whispered. "This is my psychological disorder, it's not your fault. As long as you avoid red, we'll be fine."

So I swallowed my pride, my resentment, my doubt—and agreed.

But then Miles appeared.

And I realized what a fool I had been all along.

It wasn't that she couldn't stand red.

She just couldn't stand red when it was on me.

The private doctor was outside, dressing Rosalia's wounds while I packed my bag in the bedroom. Maybe the rustle of my suitcase had roused her.

"How—are you leaving again?" she asked, pushing the door open and wrapping her arms around me from behind. Her lips traced a trail of kisses down the back of my neck.

I froze, but I didn't pull away. I let her shower me with that tenderness—tenderness that felt rehearsed.

"I still have some things I need to take care of," I said. "They want me there."

There was no real need to go. I simply didn't want to see her for a while.

Suddenly, she undid the top buttons of my shirt. "Waylon," she murmured, her voice sounded rough, "hold me tight."

She wanted me. Then, as if claiming me, she forced my hands up over my head. I didn't speak; I quietly wrenched my arms free.

When she noticed, her eyes shot opened. "Are you still angry, Waylon?"

I kept silent.

She sank to one knee like an apology and took out a small gift box from behind her back, almost reverent. "I bought you something new. See if you like it."

I opened the box. Inside lay a set of pure white shirts.

A wave of nausea rose in me. Without a word, I pushed the gift box aside.

“Rosalia, let’s get a divorce.”

Just then, her phone buzzed. Message after message popped up on the screen.

She glanced down almost instinctively, and at once her eyes softened, filled with a tenderness I had never seen directed at me.

I caught a glimpse.

It was a boy named Miles, happily sharing snippets of his daily life with her.

A century seemed to pass before Rosalia finally looked up, as if surfacing from another world.

“Hm? What did you just say?”

I felt as if my fist had sunk into cotton—weak, powerless.

On her lock screen was Miles’s carefree profile, dressed in a striking red shirt. Each time she looked at him, her gaze overflowed with gentleness and indulgence.

A look she has never—not once—given me.

...

When Miles showed up at my door holding a pregnancy report, I slapped him without hesitation.

He hadn't expected my hand to land. He cried out and the two of us tangled, shouting and pulling at one another.

"Waylon, you bastard!" he screamed. "How dare you hit me—Rosalia will never forgive you for this!"

Rosalia rushed in at the noise, her face drained of color. She saw me gripping Miles by the hair, pressing him humiliated against the wall.

"Waylon!" she cried, panicked.

Rather than anger, a strange amusement spread across my face as I turned to her. "Wife, this man is a fraud. He's claiming you're carrying his child. How could that be? For the money he once took, I'll teach him a lesson."

I swung at Miles's stomach—but someone clamped my wrist before my fist made contact.

"Waylon, stop this," Rosalia snapped, pinching the bridge of her nose as if to hold herself together.

"You're stopping me?" I shot back.

In public she always wore the mask of the devoted wife; she lived for other people’s approval. This was the first time she’d ignored their stares and comments just to stop me.

"What's this, then? Is what he says true? Are you really carrying his child?"

I expected denial—evasions, excuses, some tangled web of lies to patch this over. Instead, she met my eyes with a clear, steady answer.

"Yes," she said. "I'm pregnant."

The words landed and everything went still. I used the last of my strength and slapped her full across the face.

Her head turned from the blow. She didn't dodge. She didn't flinch. For a long moment, she simply looked away.

"Waylon, that night was a mistake," Rosalia whispered. "I thought Miles was you..."

"But the doctor said I can't terminate this pregnancy—if I do, I'll never be able to have children again. This baby has to stay."

Rosalia pressed Miles protectively behind her; the gesture left no doubt where she stood.

I remembered her first explanation when I'd first begun to suspect.

"Miles is just a student of mine. He recently graduated and is looking for work, so he's been asking me for guidance." Besides being CEO, she also taught as a guest lecturer. Students consulting professors—there was nothing strange about that.

But I had seen the résumé she hid under her desk. She'd already hired him into the company. If it was only a mentor-student relationship, it was fine. But then I'd saw her dancing with Miles in his red suit—kissing him, clinging to him. At that moment, I wanted to break every branch within reach.

"Weren't you supposed to be on a business trip?" Rosalia frowned and tugged at my sleeve, trying to smooth things over. "We can talk about this at home."

I shrugged her off coldly. Looking at Miles's blazing red suit, I snorted. "You're the one who goes berserk at the sight of red—are you blind? Can't you see him standing there in that scarlet suit?"

"Rosalia, do you remember what happened the last time I wore a red suit?" I asked. "You'd just told me you were pregnant. I put on red to celebrate, and you attacked me—you smashed my head open, and we lost our child. Have you forgotten?"

She looked at me, exhausted and helpless. "I've already said I'm sorry."

"Waylon, must you keep bringing this up? How long are you going to make a scene?" she snapped.

"Make a scene?" The word tasted absurd in my mouth. "It was a life—do you expect me not to make a scene?"

"Rosalia, either you go to the hospital and terminate this pregnancy today," I said, my voice flat, "or you pay for it with your life."

Miles, crouched behind her, twisted with indignation and grabbed her sleeve, eyes wide and pleading. "Rosalia, please don't abort this baby. This is our child..."

Rosalia squeezed his hand and calmed him. Her stance never wavered, as if saying no one must touch Miles.

"I told you—I cannot have an abortion," she said, then dropped to one knee in front of me. "Let me keep this child and I'll give you my life. I'll do whatever you want—please, Waylon."

The same false, performative devotion—always for show. I could feel my revulsion, but I forced a smile that felt like sunlight on poison.

"Fine."

I picked up the vase beside me.

Miles shrieked as I hurled it toward Rosalia. He lunged to shield her and the vase smashed against his back.

The color drained from her face inch by inch.

"Miles..." she cried, flinging herself around him. "Don't be afraid—I'll get a doctor!"

She turned once, and her eyes met mine—cold and full of murderous hate.

That's when I understood: Rosalia would never let me go.

But before she could ruin me—I had already arranged for a reporter to be lurking nearby. The camera caught everything. Tonight, unless something unexpected happened, Rosalia would see her private life splashed across the headlines.