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.

I returned home.

The home Daphne and I had once decorated together with our own hands.

Now it was filled with a stranger's presence.

At the entryway sat a pair of limited-edition men's sneakers I didn't recognize.

On the coffee table in the living room lay a half-finished box of cigars—definitely not the brand I smoked.

The studio I treasured most, the one dedicated entirely to my design drafts, was locked shut.

I walked over and pressed my thumb against the fingerprint lock.

"Beep. Verification failed." The cold mechanical voice echoed in the quiet apartment.

My fingerprint had already been deleted.

My heart sank, little by little.

Instinctively, I moved toward the master bedroom. Inside the walk-in closet, the half that used to belong to me had been completely cleared out.

In its place hung rows of luxury men's clothing from brands I didn't recognize. Every piece carried the same gaudy, arrogant style that suited Ronan perfectly.

So while I had been away for half a month, my home had already become someone else's nest.

Just then, the doorbell rang.

I opened the door.

Standing outside was the building's property manager, Gordon Pike, wearing a flattering smile.

Behind him stood Ronan.

"Oh, Mr. Cross, you're home." Mr. Pike's tone carried a hint of thinly veiled disdain.

"Here's what's going on. Mr. Ashford has just filed a complaint with property management. He says you're refusing to leave the apartment he rented and are interfering with his normal life."

Ronan crossed his arms and leaned lazily against the doorframe. The way he looked at me was the same way someone would watch a clown performing on a stage.

"My girlfriend has a soft heart. She let you stay here for a few days out of pity," he said with a sneer. "And you really started thinking you were the owner?"

He tilted his chin toward the manager. "Mr. Pike, when someone refuses to leave like this, what's the usual procedure?"

Mr. Pike immediately bent slightly at the waist, nodding eagerly. "Don't worry, Mr. Ashford. We'll handle it right away."

Then he turned toward me, his expression switching to a cold, official mask. "Mr. Cross, since you are not the resident here, please leave immediately. Otherwise, we'll have to call security."

I laughed in disbelief.

"Mr. Pike, you've worked in this building for five years. You're telling me you don't recognize me? My name is on the property deed of this apartment. Landon Cross. I'm the owner."

Ronan burst out laughing exaggeratedly, as if he had just heard the funniest joke in the world.

"Your name?" he mocked. "Landon, are you still dreaming?"

He pulled a document from his pocket and waved it in front of me. It was a printed lease agreement.

Clear black text across white paper.

The landlord: Daphne Sinclair.

The tenant: Ronan Ashford.

"Read it carefully," Ronan said. He tapped the contract against my face, humiliation gleaming in his eyes. "Black and white. Right now, I'm the legal tenant here.

"And you?" His smile widened. "You're just an illegal trespasser."

"Mr. Pike, what are you waiting for?" he said impatiently. "Call security and throw him out."

I could hardly believe what I was hearing.

This top-floor duplex was the apartment I bought with every dollar of the prize money after winning an international design award.

Back then, Daphne had said that women needed a sense of security. She said she would only feel loved if the property certificate carried her name alone.

I loved and trusted her.

Without hesitation, I had agreed. I thought it was proof of our love.

I never imagined it would become the very weapon she used to betray and humiliate me.

Amid the harsh static of the walkie-talkie, several uniformed security guards rushed over and surrounded me.

"That's him!" Ronan ordered arrogantly.

"Throw him out!"

"Mr. Ashford is the most respected resident in our community. Offending him means you're picking a fight with our entire property management!"

Travis Calder, the head of security, stepped forward with a vicious look and shoved my shoulder.

I staggered, my back slamming hard against the cold wall.

"What right do you have to touch me? This is my home!" I roared.

"Your home?" Ronan scoffed as he walked closer. "A loser who can't even produce a property deed thinks he owns this place?"

"Beat him," he ordered coldly. "If anything happens, I'll take responsibility."

The guards needed no further encouragement. Fists and batons rained down on me.

Ronan crouched beside me and leaned close, his voice low enough that only the two of us could hear.

"Your wife was screaming pretty sweetly in the car just now," he whispered. "She said you could never satisfy her."

His words burned into my dignity like red-hot iron.

I tried to fight back, but it was useless.

Within seconds, they forced me to the ground.

Someone twisted my arms behind my back. Another pressed a knee into my spine, pinning me in place so I couldn't move.

"Stop! What are you doing?"

At that moment, Daphne's scream came from the doorway. For a second, I thought my savior had arrived. I was wrong.

She rushed inside, not even looking at me.

Instead, she ran straight to Ronan, anxiously looking him over from head to toe.

"Ronan, are you okay? Did he hurt you?"

The concern in her voice made it sound as if Ronan were the victim.

Ronan slipped an arm around her waist and pointed at me with a wounded expression.

"Daphne, look at him. He went crazy and broke into our home, attacking people."

Mr. Calder immediately chimed in, "That's right, Miss Sinclair. We saw it with our own eyes! If we hadn't stopped him, Mr. Ashford might have gotten seriously hurt."

Only then did Daphne turn her head toward me. I lay on the floor, barely able to lift myself. Her gaze was colder than poison.

"Landon, are you done causing a scene? Do you have to make things this ugly before you're satisfied?"

I looked at her, my heart tearing apart inside my chest. "Daphne... this house is our marital home. Have you forgotten? Back then, you said once we had this home, we'd truly settle down in this city. You said you loved me..."

"Marital home?" She suddenly laughed. The sound was full of ridicule and disdain. "Landon, did you forget? We never even registered our marriage."

My mind went blank with a sharp buzzing sound.

"Back then, I asked you to schedule the appointment. Every time you said you were busy, that it didn't matter if it was a day or two later. So... so you were lying to me from the beginning?"

She looked at me coldly, as if I were nothing more than a stranger. "Lying to you? I just hadn't figured out how I was supposed to spend my life with a poor man. You and I were just playing around. Now I'm bored with the game. Understand?"

Each word was a hammer smashing apart the last fragments of hope inside me.

Seeing this, Ronan grew even more arrogant. He walked over and planted his foot on the back of my hand, grinding it down hard.

"You hear that, loser?" He lifted his foot suddenly and drove a punch into my face. "Now get the hell out of here."

Pain exploded across my vision, turning everything black. The taste of thick blood filled my mouth.

The guards stepped forward again. They grabbed my arms and dragged me toward the door like a dead dog.

My dignity.

My love.

Everything I had.

In that moment, they crushed it all beneath their feet.