Zachary Quinn suddenly develops a fondness for going to a massage parlor after I'm discharged from the hospital—I was in an accident.

He excitedly tells me that the masseuse there has the best skills he's ever experienced. "They even have free food and fruits! I bring my laptop there with me to work when I get tired at the office."

I don't know why he's telling me these things. He knows my father got caught cheating at a massage parlor. I hate those places.

It's only later that I learn the relaxation he describes isn't what I imagined. He's long since gone bad in places that I can't see.

The day I was discharged from the hospital after the car accident, Zachary Quinn brought something up out of nowhere.

"I found a great massage parlor recently. We should try it together sometime. I go there now and then when I need to unwind."

I froze. Of all the things he could've said, I never expected him to mention that place. The place that I loathed with every fiber of my being.

Zachary didn't seem to notice anything. Instead, he casually held my hand. "I know you have a thing against massage parlors, but you can't just assume they're all the same.

"Not everyone's like your dad, you know. You have to trust me. I only love you. Besides, holding onto stuff like that isn't good for you."

But forgetting wasn't an option.

Not when I could still hear my mother's ragged screams echoing in my head. Not when I could still see my father, red-faced and furious, shouting obscenities.

Not when I could still picture the woman tangled up in the sheets, hiding as she was too ashamed to show her face.

Those memories still yanked me out of sleep in a cold sweat.

"And what if I never stop hating that place? What if I never move on?" I asked.

Zachary just smiled and ruffled my hair. "Then don't. You don't have to go."

Something inside me snapped. I pulled my hand away under the pretense of tucking my hair behind my ear.

He just went on. "If you won't go, I'll just go by myself. Come to think of it, I've been so busy these past few days—I haven't had the time."

I clenched my hand into a fist, and my nails dug into my palm. My voice was flat when I finally responded, "Do whatever you want."

Zachary grinned and pinched my cheek. "What's with the attitude? Are you mad because I didn't stay with you at the hospital?"

I couldn't even muster a smile.

He hooked his pinky around mine, but I ignored him. Undeterred, he leaned in, aiming for my lips. I turned my head at the last second, and his kiss landed on my cheek instead.

"I'll cook you something nice later to make up for it. You know, anger gives you wrinkles. Don't be mad at me anymore, alright?"

To Zachary, this was a passing conversation that could have been forgotten in minutes. But to me, it was a tidal wave crashing through everything I thought I knew.

He had never been the type to share these little details of his life, too.

Then, his phone buzzed. I glanced at his back as he moved around the kitchen, then—almost without thinking—let my gaze drift to his screen.

A message from Tiffany Larson popped up.

"It's been three days. Should I still wait for you today?"

The second I saw that familiar name, my breath caught in my throat. The thing I had feared most was no longer a possibility. It was real.

I took multiple deep breaths to force myself to calm down. After doing so, my hands trembled as I reached for his phone and typed in the passcode.

Even though I was mentally prepared, seeing it with my own eyes still sent a sharp, undeniable pain straight through my chest.

As the last illusion between us shattered, all I hear was silence.

I completely lost my appetite. After forcing down a couple of bites, I limped back to bed and curled up under the covers, hoping to sleep.

Zachary didn't notice anything was off. Just like always, he scooted close and tucked his head into the curve of my neck. His stubble grazed my skin, sending an uncomfortable prickling sensation down my spine.

He rubbed his hands together to warm them before holding my hands under the blanket.

He always paid attention to these little details—so much so that he made me believe that we had always loved each other this deeply.

But only I knew the truth. There was already an insurmountable wall between us.

He pressed his forehead lightly against mine while gently rubbing my calf. "Is your leg hurting again? Just rest, okay? Get some sleep. You'll feel better when you wake up."

I kept my expression blank with my lips pressed into a tight line, refusing to say a word.

Zachary didn't notice anything strange. He just kissed my forehead, grabbed his jacket, and stood up.

"I've got work," he said. "Need to head out for a bit. Be good and wait for me, alright?"

An uncontrollable tremor ran through me as my chest tightened with a sharp sting of something I couldn't quite name.

I bit down hard on my lip to swallow the lump in my throat. "Work? On a Sunday?"

For a brief second, his face stiffened, but then he quickly smoothed it over, answering in that same patient tone. "Yeah. This project is important. The client's priority comes first, so I have to work around their schedule."

My nails dug into my palm, leaving behind deep, crescent-shaped indents. I forced a smile and nodded approvingly. "Alright. Go, then."

Before I could say anything else, the door clicked shut behind him.

He was… in such a hurry, as if staying even a second longer and listening to me might make a difference.

He didn't even pause to wonder why I was so understanding today—when, in the past, I never let him get away with working on weekends.

How ridiculous. We spent nine, almost ten years together—since we were 17 and till now, 27.

And in the end, he still cheated on me with a woman from a massage parlor.

I lay in bed, tossing and turning.

This wasn't the first time I'd caught Zachary lying to me. But when did I first realize something was off? It was the day I woke up in the hospital after my car accident.

Thinking back about it, I found it almost laughable. When I opened my eyes, there wasn't a single familiar face beside me.

It wasn't until I asked the nurse to call Zachary that he finally showed up breathless, with hair a mess, and with a container of seafood chowder in his hand.

One of his shirt buttons was fastened wrong as if he'd dressed in a hurry and hadn't even noticed.

The Zachary I knew was never sloppy. His hair was always perfectly styled, and his clothes were always pressed and immaculate. It was rare to see him so unkempt.

He told me he'd gone out to buy breakfast, estimating when I'd wake up so he could be there.

But he forgot that by 11:00 am, breakfast hours were long over. And he also forgot that I was allergic to seafood.

The truth was obvious. He was desperate for an excuse, so he grabbed whatever was left at the hospital cafeteria.

If it had been anything else, maybe I wouldn't have questioned him. Perhaps I would've been convinced.

But it was seafood chowder.

Even fate seemed unwilling to let me stay blind. It shoved the truth in my face, forcing me to see it. It wanted me to save myself.

A few days earlier, a woman added me on Facebook. She sent me a message with only her name, "Tiffany Larson."

I didn't think much of it. People often reached out through Facebook for art commissions, so I made a note of her name and moved on.

That was until I noticed that Zachary also had a "Tiffany Larson" in his friend list.

It was probably a burner account—the profile picture was different from the one saved in Zachary's phone under the name "Tiffany", and the username didn't match either.

Profile pictures can be faked, and usernames can be changed, but photos can't lie.

In her posts, I saw Zachary in places I had never been.

A side profile of him wearing glasses, working on his laptop at a massage parlor.

His hand intertwined with someone else's in a hotel room.

A picture of him strolling through a mall, looking far too comfortable with someone by his side.

There were even pictures of him in an unfamiliar bedroom, and in every photo, his face was either turned away or blurred in the background.

Her most recent post was from the day I woke up after my accident. It was taken inside Zachary's car.

She had intentionally framed the shot to show his left hand without a wedding ring. But I still recognized that it was Zachary instantly.

A faint scar ran across his left index finger—a mark from the time he tried cooking for me when he was 22 years old and cut himself.

I felt so bad for him that I bought countless scar creams, but he refused to use them. He told me it was a symbol of his love for me, and it was something he'd tell our future child about one day.

But before that child could even exist, he had already turned those promises into empty words.

None of her posts had captions. It seemed like she had posted those photos just for me to see.

What a blatant provocation.

My vision blurred, and my stomach twisted violently. A wave of nausea rose in my throat, and I lurched toward the trash can, retching. However, nothing came out.

At that moment, something inside me shifted.

This marriage was beyond saving. It was tattered and broken beyond repair—patching it up now would only be humiliating.