By the second year of my battle with speech aphasia, I had taken on the role of sign language host for rehearsals. The new host was struggling with her lines, stumbling repeatedly, which forced me to gesture countless times.

My husband, Fletcher, who managed the station, was livid about my strained wrist. "If you can't even remember your lines, what's the point of being a host? Mess up again, and you're out!"

The female host was terrified, muttering apologies while everyone else stayed silent. People knew Fletcher was notorious for being protective, unable to bear seeing me upset. But after the rehearsal, I stumbled upon him comforting that same host in his arms.

"Sweetheart, don't cry. Your tears move me," he murmured. "Your voice is so much more pleasant than that mute's. Go ahead..."

I was crushed. Right then, I accepted an invitation from my old colleague at the network. "Lawrence, I'll join you for the Christmas special in five days."

No sooner had I replied than I received the script from him. I saved it on my phone and drove to the hospital alone. Three days ago, Fletcher had changed plans unexpectedly and didn't accompany me for my follow-up. He had no clue my voice had come back, nor did he know that when I wanted to share my joy with him, I discovered his betrayal.

In the past few days, I'd been diligently attending speech therapy, working on my pronunciation. My speech was improving, and the therapist said I was ready for hosting again. When I returned home after practice, I saw Fletcher hurriedly approaching from a distance.

"Gabby, why did you turn off your phone? I was worried sick," he said with genuine concern etched on his face. It made me question if what I'd seen in the dressing room was just a figment of my imagination. After all, we had been in love for six years, and Fletcher had always treated me like I was precious. I recalled when he was vying for the station manager role; I left my job at the network without hesitation to support him. The shows I hosted consistently broke viewership records, ensuring his success.

Two years ago, I endured a car accident, trapped in a burning vehicle for too long. Though rescued, I found my vocal cords severely damaged, leaving me speechless. When Fletcher learned I couldn't host anymore, he vowed to stay by my side. He accompanied me to therapy every day, learned sign language, and cheered me on to return to television.

Yet now, this man whom everyone believed loved me deeply had a fresh mark on his neck, hinting at intimacy with another woman. It brutally reminded me that the one I loved for six years had long faded. I turned away, signing an excuse, "My hand hurts. I'm going to see a doctor."

Fletcher immediately examined my hand. "What did the doctor say? Is it serious? Does your wrist still hurt now?"

"It's that incompetent host's fault. I'll replace her as soon as I'm back..."

That female host, Vanessa, was my junior in the hosting program. She had a lovely voice but was hopeless with scripts. Fletcher repeatedly talked about replacing her, yet somehow Vanessa had become the lead host for the special. After discovering their relationship, I realized how convincing Fletcher's act was. I looked at Fletcher without blinking and, in a rare moment, nodded in agreement.

He seemed taken aback, not expecting my approval. "Gabby, you know the special's approaching. If we replace her now..."

Watching him struggle to concoct excuses seemed utterly dull. I signed a teasing response. Fletcher relaxed a bit, holding my hand more gently. "If it still hurts, let me know. I'll go with you to the hospital."

Back home, I saw a beautifully set table adorned with roses. It was our sixth anniversary. The table was laden with my favorite dishes, yet I had no appetite. Seeing my lack of enthusiasm, Fletcher magically produced a cake.

He cut a small slice and offered it to me. "Gabby, try my baking. You've rehearsed so hard; a little sweetness will perk you up."

I nodded politely, taking a tentative bite. The spiced honey cake filled my mouth, but tasted bitter. Meeting Fletcher's hopeful gaze, I signed my thanks. "It's delicious. Thank you."

Fletcher beamed with satisfaction. "Great! Have some more, Gabby."

Just as he finished speaking, his phone rang on the table. He glanced at me briefly before quickly pressing the speaker button.

Fletcher and I had been together for six years, and he always put his phone on speaker when taking calls in front of me. He claimed there were no secrets between us and wanted to reassure me.

When the call connected, a melodious female voice filled the room. "Director, there's an issue at tonight's rehearsal. Can you come by?"

Fletcher's expression became stern, his voice cold. "Where's the deputy director? If there's a problem, he should handle it."

The woman responded apologetically, "His wife's gone into labor, and he's at the hospital with her."

Reluctantly, Fletcher agreed, "Alright, I'll be there soon." But after hanging up, he smirked, a glint of anticipation in his eyes. Moments later, he composed himself, turning to me with an apologetic look.

"Gabrielle, I've got to check on things at the station. If it runs late, I might not make it back tonight."

As he spoke, I reached out to stop him, my hand brushing against the scar on his palm, lost in thought. I recalled how, after I left my job at the BBC, a deranged fan had attacked me outside the studio. Fletcher had shielded me with his bare hands, earning that scar while saving me.

Caught in that memory, I hesitated. With my head bowed, I gestured with my hands. "Today is our anniversary. Can you stay and spend it with me?"

If Fletcher chose to stay, it might be one last chance for us.

"Gabrielle, don't be difficult. I'm the director. I need to be responsible for the New Year’s Eve special!"

With that, he hurried out the door, not even realizing he left his phone behind. I picked it up, threw on a coat, and rushed out after him.

At the entrance, I saw him get into a red Ferrari. A few minutes later, the car began to rock back and forth. My heart skipped a beat, and I couldn't stop trembling. Suddenly, thunder rumbled, and a flash of lightning revealed the alluring face of the woman inside the car.

At the same time, Fletcher's phone lit up with an incoming call. There was no name, but I instantly recognized who it was. With a trembling hand, I answered, and Vanessa's teasing laughter filled my ears.

“Fletcher, go easy. Has Gabrielle not been satisfying you?”

The suggestive noises paused briefly before Fletcher’s mocking laughter came through. “That mute is so dull in bed. How could she compare to you?”

His words cut through me like a knife. I clenched my hand until it hurt, fighting back tears. After recording the call and sending it to my phone, I rushed out into the rain to print the divorce papers.

Back home, I sat at the dining table and poured myself a cup of coffee, a toast to my future. “Gabrielle Ortiz, here's to your new beginning.”

That night, just as I suspected, Fletcher didn't come home.

When I woke up the next day, he had already prepared breakfast, waiting for me to get up. A smug confidence in his demeanor, he tried to wrap his arms around me. The overpowering scent of perfume made me instinctively pull away.

Fletcher looked confused; this was the first time I had ever rejected him. "What's wrong, Gabrielle? Are you upset that I didn't come back last night?"

"Once we finish the photoshoot today, how about I take you to the auction?"

I nodded calmly, and after breakfast, we drove to the station. In the dressing room, though I was just the sign language interpreter, Fletcher had arranged for a custom Victorian-style dress for me, as he always did.

Suddenly, as I was getting my makeup done, Vanessa knocked on the door and entered. Fletcher frowned immediately upon seeing her.

"Gabby, am I...interrupting?" Vanessa asked, apologetically, her outfit barely covering her.

Noticing Fletcher's unwavering gaze, I responded mockingly, "Is there something you need?"

"Gabby, my evening gown is ruined. Could I borrow yours?"

Before she could finish, Fletcher's face hardened. "Absolutely not! This was made especially for Gabrielle. No one else deserves it."

Vanessa bit her lip, remaining silent. Fletcher, impatiently, instructed the stylist to find her another dress. I was then called to rehearse my lines by the director and left with the assistant.

As I stepped out of the dressing room, I realized I had left my script behind. Turning back to retrieve it, I passed Vanessa's dressing room.

Through the slightly open door, I overheard hushed voices from inside.

"Haven't I told you not to take what's not yours? Why won't you listen?" Fletcher's voice was stern.

"But I want to wear a designer dress too," Vanessa pouted. "Don’t I look better in it than she does?"

Vanessa was in my gown, tangled up with Fletcher.

"You look great... but you're not listening, so you need to learn a lesson."

Vanessa whimpered, her eyes filling with tears.

"Just bear with it! Don't get the dress dirty, or Gabrielle will notice!"

Quietly, I retrieved my script and headed to the studio to rehearse. Just as I stepped on stage, my phone buzzed with a stream of unfamiliar text messages, each accompanied by intimate and suggestive photos.

"Gabrielle Ortiz, your husband is so passionate with me; he says he could die in my arms!"

"How does a mute, boring old woman like you dare to be with him?"

I stood frozen, the onslaught of messages tormenting me. In my daze, I didn't hear the crew calling out to me.

Suddenly, I stumbled, falling straight into the malfunctioning lift below. Before losing consciousness entirely, I glimpsed a man running toward me.

"Gabrielle..."

When I awoke, I was in the hospital, a sharp pain coursing through my right hand. Fletcher was by my bedside, eyes red, as he wrapped me in a tight embrace, relieved beyond measure.

"Gabrielle, you're finally awake; you scared me to death!"

I gently pulled away from his grasp, and he looked at me cautiously.

"Gabrielle, you've been so distracted during rehearsals recently. Is it the pressure? Maybe we should step back from hosting?"

I didn't respond, only lowered my gaze to my bandaged hand. Fletcher noticed my despondency, a flicker of panic crossing his eyes.

"The doctor said you have a fractured finger, and you might not be able to host the Christmas Eve show..."

He looked at me with concern. "But it's okay, there will be plenty more opportunities."

I managed a bitter smile, wondering if this was fate's message. Perhaps it was for the best I couldn’t host since I was planning to leave anyway.

As we spoke, Vanessa suddenly barged in, casting a smug glance my way.

"Thanks for letting me wear this dress, Gabrielle. It fits perfectly!" She twirled around, showing off like a victorious swan.

Fletcher's expression turned frosty as he glanced between us, his nervousness obvious.

"Gabrielle, Vanessa is, after all, the face of our network..."

I interrupted him, sipping my coffee, "It's fine, let her have it."

Relieved, Fletcher visibly relaxed. After taking me home, he rushed back to the station to handle the fallout from the incident.

I scanned the living room of the house I had called home for the past six years, my eyes resting on the display cabinet. It housed photos of Fletcher and me, taken after every broadcast.

Before leaving, I resolved to pack up all my belongings. Just then, a message notification from the work group chat appeared. It was about the annual gift exchange before the Christmas Eve show.

By unfortunate luck, I had drawn Vanessa for the exchange.

"Gabrielle, I've prepared a big surprise for you—you're going to love it!" Vanessa's playful and charming message taunted me.

Little did anyone know, she was the mistress, and my husband was cheating on me with her.

Ironically, I had prepared a grand surprise for both her and Fletcher as well.