Divorce After Betrayal

To prepare for a baby, my wife, Daphne Sinclair, suggested we start working out together and keep each other accountable by tracking our daily step counts.

While I was away on a two-week business trip, she ranked first on our Fitbit leaderboard every single night.

Then one day, my neighbor suddenly sent me a video. The location tag showed it was filmed right in the parking lot beneath my apartment.

"Bro, impressive. Your wife's even hired a personal trainer for her workouts now? That Maybach suspension really hits different."

In the video, a pink sports bra I had never seen before hung from the driver’s side window. The car rocked rhythmically, accompanied by Daphne's restrained yet excited breathing.

I dialed her number.

"Where are you?"

Her voice turned soft and coy. "On the treadmill, sprinting. Honey, I'm working so hard for our baby."

"Really?" I chuckled. "You've worked so hard the entire neighborhood knows about it."

Holding the phone, I said slowly, word by word, "Open the door. I'm bringing you a towel."

"Open the door. I'm bringing you a towel."

My voice wasn't loud, yet it landed like a thunderclap. The million-dollar Maybach fell instantly silent.

A few seconds later, the car door flew open.

A man wearing nothing but a pair of athletic shorts jumped out. He had a muscular build, sharp lines of definition across his body, and a face twisted with irritation and contempt after being caught in the act.

Ronan Ashford.

A rich second-generation heir who strutted through Fort Canon like he owned the place.

"What the hell is wrong with you? You sick or something?" He looked me up and down. His gaze paused on my travel-worn old jacket, the contempt in his eyes undisguised.

I ignored him. My eyes moved past him and landed on the woman inside the car, hurriedly pulling her clothes back on.

The woman I had planned to spend the rest of my life loving.

My wife.

Daphne Sinclair.

The limited-edition Lululemon jacket I had bought her was thrown loosely over her shoulders. She hadn't even managed to zip it up.

The zipper hung open, revealing the same glaring pink sports bra from the video.

"Daphne, get out." My voice was cold.

Her face turned deathly pale. After adjusting her clothes, she slowly climbed out from the other side of the car, avoiding my eyes.

Ronan pulled her into his arms with one hand, the gesture possessive.

"Oh, so this is him," he said with a smirk. "The little boy toy Daphne keeps around."

He squeezed her waist and spoke to me in a mocking tone, "What? Checking up on her? I'm her personal trainer. One-on-one coaching. Got a problem with that?"

Rage surged through my chest.

"A personal trainer?" I said coldly. "The kind who tests suspension systems inside a car?"

Daphne's body jerked violently. She finally looked up at me.

There was no guilt in her eyes, only embarrassment turning into anger after being exposed.

"Landon Cross! Have you been following me? This is insane!" She shook off Ronan's arm and strode toward me, raising her hand as if to slap me.

I caught her wrist. My grip tightened until she winced in pain.

"I'm the insane one?" I laughed bitterly. "Daphne, we agreed we'd both work hard preparing for a baby. This is how you're working hard? Those tens of thousands of steps on your fitness app every night... Were they all taken inside this car?"

Her expression shifted between rage and embarrassment. She struggled to pull her hand back but couldn't break free.

"Let go of me!" she screamed. "Who do you think you are? You're nothing more than a broke designer running some pathetic little studio. What right do you have to control me?"

Her words were knives stabbing straight into my heart.

"I hired a personal trainer to stay in the best shape possible! And you?" she continued sharply. "Other than drawing a few useless design drafts no one even wants, what else can you do? Ronan is a hundred times better than you! He can give me everything I want. Can you?"

She opened her Hermes bag, pulled out a thick stack of cash, and flung it straight into my face.

"Take this money and go see a therapist. Stop clinging to me like some lunatic. It's embarrassing."

Banknotes scattered across the ground, mocking my humiliation.

Ronan wrapped an arm around her shoulders and looked down at me with the smug smile of a victor.

"You hear that, loser? Daphne already chose me."

He turned with her and climbed back into the Maybach. The engine roared to life, and the car sped away.

I stood alone in the empty underground garage, a complete joke.

My phone began vibrating.

For a moment, I thought it was Daphne, but the screen showed an unfamiliar number.

I answered.

Ronan's voice came through, dripping with arrogance. "Loser. Forgot to tell you something.

"Daphne says you're useless in bed. You're not even worthy of tying my shoes. Oh, right," he added with a laugh. "When she's under me, she screams a lot louder than she ever did with you."

The call ended.

I bent down and picked up one of the scattered banknotes, then slowly clenched it in my fist.