I confirmed Vincent Lowe was cheating on me on the day of our third wedding anniversary.

The dining table was filled with dishes, yet he barely touched his fork before heading out the door.

"Where are you going?" I asked.

His answer was unnervingly straightforward. "A friend's treating me to dinner. Cassidy Mason—you know her, right? It's a free meal. It'd be a waste not to accept."

An hour later, however, I received a voice message from Cassidy.

In the message, Vincent's voice was lighter and livelier—so different from how he ever sounded with me.

"They say you should marry someone you can truly enjoy a meal with. I really regret meeting you so late. If only I had known you earlier, I would've married you instead."

I listened in silence. Then, alone at the table, I finished every last bite of the meal I had prepared.

Afterward, I left a divorce agreement behind.

I converted Cassidy's voice message into text, took a screenshot, and made a post with the caption: [My husband's 'foodie buddy' sent me this. Do you think he's cheating?]

Evening was peak gossip hour, the best time for entertainment.

The moment I hit publish, the comments poured in.

[Oh, honey, he's definitely cheating. If you believe they're just pure meal buddies, you might as well believe I'm the King of England!]

[Emotional cheating is still cheating! You don't have to catch them in bed for it to count. Wake up, sis!]

I chuckled softly but didn't reply. I kept scrolling.

The post gained traction, climbing the ranks until it went viral. Within moments, there were over ten thousand comments—some urging me to divorce, others dissecting the situation.

Then came the critics.

[Ugh, another weak-ass wife. If you're not going to divorce him, don't post this kinda content and waste everyone's time!]

My finger hovered over the screen. I clicked reply.

[I will. Right now.]

…

"What's got you so absorbed? Aren't you sleeping yet?"

Vincent's voice pulled me back.

Before his gaze landed on me, I locked my screen and shut my eyes, feigning sleep.

The mattress dipped behind me. His arms slipped around my waist, pulling me close.

His voice was gentle, just like always.

"I know you love the pastries from that restaurant. I brought some back for you. Want to try?"

He had just returned from dinner with Cassidy. The scent of perfume and food clung to his clothes.

I frowned slightly and shifted away.

"No, thanks."

Sensing my coldness, he let out a soft chuckle.

Like coaxing a child, he murmured near my ear, "Don't be mad, okay? It's not that I didn't want to bring you along. It's just… your stomach's sensitive. You can never eat what we do. Wouldn't it be better if we each ate our own meals instead of ruining the mood?"

Ruining the mood?

My fingers tightened around my phone.

His voice was gentle, but his words pricked like tiny needles, sharp enough to sting.

If I hadn't heard it myself, I wouldn't have known—

He and Cassidy shared the same tastes for food.

Perhaps… they'd shared a bed too?

…

That voice message from Cassidy… it wasn't the first time I had heard those words.

Two weeks ago, in a rare good mood, I had treated myself to a quiet evening at an upscale restaurant.

After settling into a private booth and placing my order, I reached into my bag and pulled out a folded piece of paper.

A sonogram.

A tiny, barely-formed shape nestled in the black-and-white image.

Our first child in three years of marriage.

Vincent would be thrilled, I thought.

The waiter brought my cream of mushroom soup. I took a small sip, then picked up my phone.

I knew he loved this flavor.

For a moment, I debated—should I tell him about the restaurant first, that I had finally found a place where we could enjoy a meal together? Or should I tell him about the baby, the life we were about to welcome?

And then—

From the private booth next door, I heard Vincent's voice.

"This is awful! Honestly, only my wife, Samantha, would enjoy this kind of bland, fancy-looking food. I should've known better than to be curious about her taste in food. Let's never come to a place like this again."

The restaurant had an air of quiet sophistication. Bamboo curtains separated the private booths, elegant yet ineffective at keeping conversations discreet.

That was how I heard Vincent's voice so clearly, laced with distaste.

The dishes had been served. I lifted my fork but hesitated, my hand freezing midair.

My gaze shifted toward the curtain, half-drawn, half-revealing. Through the delicate slits of bamboo, I saw them—just the two of them.

Vincent tossed his spoon aside, pulled Cassidy into his arms, and raised a playful brow.

"Hey, Cassidy, let's go for skewers tonight. Just us."

She laughed, leaning into him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Sure. Oh, and since you're off in a couple of days, how about a trip up north? I've planned it all out. The barbecue there is amazing."

Vincent agreed without a second thought.

I almost lifted the curtain, but my hand stalled. My eyes widened.

Time off?

Hadn't he told me he'd be on a business trip to Hangston City?

A memory surfaced, unbidden. The sudden uptick in his travel. The gradual shift in his schedule. They all coincided with the moment Cassidy entered his life.

But Vincent's job never required much travel.

I sat there, stunned, absorbing every detail of their itinerary.

Then, as if recalling something, Vincent added casually, "Oh, you should book the hotel. If I do it, my wife might get suspicious. She's dull, but I'm not ready for a divorce yet."

Cassidy, concise as ever, asked, "One king bed?"

Their laughter followed, synchronized and intimate.

And with that, the last vestige of doubt crumbled.

For a long time, I had tried to deceive myself. Maybe they were just close friends. Maybe their boundaries were simply blurred.

But this was something else entirely.

My husband, perhaps, maybe—no. Most certainly.

Was cheating on me.

I lowered my gaze to the sonogram on the table. My fingers pressed into my palm, deep enough to leave crescents of blood.

Tears fell, heavy and soundless.

Vincent's laughter faded into a wistful sigh. "Ah, if only we had met earlier. Marrying you would've made me so much happier. Samantha and I can't even enjoy a meal together. Every time I eat her bland cooking, it's like I'm serving a prison sentence."

They laughed again, careless and cruel.

For a moment, I wanted to fling the scalding tea straight at his face, to slap him hard enough to make him remember his wife whom he had so carelessly mocked.

But reason held me back.

This restaurant was close to my office. Many of my colleagues dined here regularly.

A scene would do me no favors.

My fork slipped from my fingers, clattering to the floor. I didn't bother picking it up.

The food in front of me, once warm, had gone cold and stiff.

Nausea roiled in my stomach. I couldn't take another bite.

A bitter realization settled over me. For three years, I had lived under the illusion of a shared life.

And all the while, my husband had endured my presence as if it were some kind of trial.

If it was so unbearable, why stay?

My hand drifted to my stomach. I whispered an apology.

"I'm sorry, baby. We've only just met today, but I've decided you don't deserve a father like him."

I contacted a lawyer as soon as I left the restaurant. It took some time, but the divorce papers were soon drafted with meticulous precision. Asset division. Property rights.

Since he had betrayed me, I would take everything I was owed.

And today, just as Vincent left home, the finalized divorce papers arrived in my hands.

Vincent was fast asleep beside me.

Perhaps he was feeling cold—his arm tightened around mine, his hand pressing down directly on my stomach.

I had a weak stomach to begin with, and now, in the early stages of pregnancy, the pressure sent a wave of nausea crashing over me. Sleep fled instantly.

I pushed Vincent away in a panic. He muttered something in his sleep, then rolled over.

I didn't spare him another glance. Instead, I ran to the bathroom.

After what felt like an eternity of retching, I stumbled out, body weak and exhausted. I needed a glass of warm water, something to settle the churning in my stomach.

I assumed Vincent was still asleep. But when I reached the dining table, I found a steaming cup of herbal drink waiting for me.

Vincent was sitting nearby, rubbing his eyes, still half-asleep. When he saw me, he sighed, as if exasperated.

"If I don't watch over you for even a day, you forget to take your medicine, don't you?" he said. "My poor, fragile wife—what would you do without me?"

Next to the cup was a pill for my stomach. A freshly boiled kettle of water sat beside it, steam curling lazily into the air.

"Drink it while it's hot," he urged, pushing the cup toward me. "And after you're done, pour the leftover hot water into a heating pad and keep it on your stomach—it'll feel better."

Looking into his eyes, I felt a sudden ache in my heart.

He was too practiced at this. Too familiar with taking care of me, as if loving me had long since become muscle memory.

It made me want to soften. To waver.

But I couldn't.

Absolutely not.

I despised betrayal. It sickened me.

Ignoring the pill, I tilted my head back and swallowed the herbal drink in one go, forcing down the sting in my throat.

Then, I said, "Vincent, let's get a divorce."

Vincent froze. Then, as if convinced he had misheard, he reached out and tousled my hair.

"Did you wake up in a daze? Or did throwing up make you lightheaded? Stop talking nonsense."

I stepped away, out of his reach. My gaze met his, calm and unwavering.

"I know about you and Cassidy," I said. "Stop pretending."

For a fraction of a second, his expression went blank.

He recovered quickly, but I had already seen it.

He let out a laugh, easy and natural.

"Come on, what could possibly be going on between me and her? She's just a friend, at most a little closer than a friend. You know, a foodie buddy. You're still upset about earlier, aren't you?"

He grasped my shoulders and looked into my eyes calmly.

"I already explained, didn't I? You can't eat oily or spicy food because of your stomach. Why would I take you there? Just to sit and watch us eat? Wouldn't that be awkward for you?"

I didn't want to hear his excuses. I cut him off coldly.

"What's today's date?"

Vincent hesitated, as if trying to recall. Then, as realization dawned, he chuckled, shaking his head.

"Oh, so that's why you're upset. My dear wife, I'm really sorry. I'll take the day off tomorrow. We can redo our anniversary properly, alright?"

I opened my mouth, ready to expose him completely.

But at that moment, his phone rang.

A name flashed on the screen: Cassidy.

He didn't put it on speaker, but her voice came through, loud and clear.

"Vincent, that restaurant we went to today must've been unsanitary. I feel awful. My stomach hurts so much. Can you take me to the hospital? I just… I really want you here with me."

Vincent's brows furrowed instantly.

Even when I had just asked for a divorce, he hadn't looked this tense.

But when he spoke, his voice was gentle.

"Alright. Wear something warm. I'm coming now."