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.

'Rosalia—why do you get to take whatever you want, toss it aside whenever you're done? I'm not an object.'

'This time, I'll make sure you finally understand the price of what you've done.'

Sure enough, two hours later, the headline #Rosalia Lopez Two Timing exploded onto the trending list.

Almost immediately my phone rang, vibrating furiously. Her name lit up the screen.

"Waylon, did you arrange that trending post? Take it down—now!"

I said nothing and hung up without a moment's hesitation. Then I blocked her number.

Her messages still came through like bullets fired at a wall.

[Waylon, what are you trying to do? Do you realize how much damage this is causing the company? The stock is already plummeting!]

[Waylon, I know you're angry, but can't we just go home and talk this out?]

[If you want, I can apologize...]

Expressionless, I switched off my phone and placed it face-down on the table. Across from me sat my lawyer.

"Let's continue," I said flatly.

I slid a file from the bottom of my bag—the one I'd hidden away for years—and handed it over.

"Please check if this divorce agreement is still valid."

Before we married, Rosalia had signed a blank divorce agreement herself. At that time, there was no affection between us.

She looked at me in the eye and said coldly, "If you ever want to leave, just sign it. You'll be free. This is my guarantee to you."

Later, our relationship deepened. She, the powerful CEO, would still cook three meals a day for me. She thought of everything—whether I was cold, whether I was hot—she cared about every detail.

I've been moved. I thought that kind of life could last forever. So I buried the document deep in a drawer and forgot about it.

Until Miles appeared.

I had never seriously considered divorce before then. Apart from her hatred of red, Rosalia had been good to me—even after the baby was lost, I had forgiven her.

I could endure being hurt. But I could not endure being made a joke.

The lawyer finished reviewing the papers and nodded.

"Mr. Flores, this agreement is still valid. As soon as you sign it, it will take effect."

Right there, I signed and slid the file back across the table. "I want the divorce finalized. As soon as possible."

When I left the café, it had begun to drizzle. A black car honked and rolled to a stop in front of me—Rosalia's car.

"Get in," she ordered as the window slid down, revealing her cold, composed face.

I didn't even pause, walking straight past her.

"Waylon!" She jumped out and caught my arm. "Are you still making a scene?"

I slapped her hand away and then slapped her across the face. "Don't touch me. You're filthy to me now."

She stood frozen, eyes narrowing, gaze flicking to the blazing red suit I wore. Her brow knotted tightly.

"Why must you fight me on everything?"

"Waylon, didn't we once love each other? Can't we go back to that?"

"Miles only suffered minor injuries. The baby is fine. If something had happened—"

"What?" I cut her off. "You would have killed me?"

"Waylon! What have you turned into?" she snapped.

Her eyes were filled with exhaustion and disgust.

"Tell me," I said quietly. "Is it me who changed—or you?"

"Rosalia, don't forget," I said. My voice was like ice. "You were the one who betrayed me first."