These days, Ethan Carter (hereafter Ethan) was always leaving early and coming home late. When I asked him why, he would only chuckle and tease me.

"What’s the matter, babe? You’re not afraid your husband will run off with someone else, are you?"

I could only force a helpless smile at his frivolous reply. He then held me gently, coaxing me as if I were a child.

"We’re about to get married, aren’t we? You’re too busy with work, so I went to the photographer to pick out our wedding photos. This is a once-in-a-lifetime event—I can’t afford to be careless."

Though I had my doubts, I said nothing.

Until that day, when he came home as usual and took off his shirt.

Right in the middle of his back was a lipstick stain.

At that moment, I knew we would never get married.

For the past two months, every time Ethan came home, he would head straight to the shower, claiming it was too hot and he didn’t want me to suffer from the stench of his sweat.

But this time was different. As he stripped off his shirt, I saw the bright red lipstick mark on his back.

That mark struck me like a slap across the face, shattering every illusion I had about the man standing before me.

For a moment, my vision blurred, and I couldn’t breathe.

I watched Ethan head toward the bathroom and forced myself to ask, my voice trembling:

"Ethan, where have you been?"

He froze for an instant, then turned around with a smile.

"Oh, I just went to check on our wedding photos. The photographer said the edits were nearly done and wanted me to take a look."

The photographer he mentioned was a young woman we had met two months ago when taking our bridal portraits. She had pink hair, dimples when she smiled, and an energetic personality.

If I hadn’t seen the lipstick stain, perhaps I wouldn’t have suspected anything. But now, every one of his actions felt suspicious.

When Ethan saw me standing still, he sighed and wrapped his arms around me.

"What’s wrong? You look so pale."

With him so close, all I felt was disgust.

Ethan, do you even realize you’re holding me while another woman’s lipstick still stains your back?

From his expression, he didn’t. Clearly, this was that woman’s deliberate provocation.

I slipped out of his arms without showing any reaction, pretending nothing had happened.

"It must be that I haven’t been sleeping well. Go ahead and take your shower."

He kissed my forehead lightly.

"Alright, sweetheart."

He had no idea the scent of perfume clinging to him made me want to vomit.

As Ethan entered the bathroom, my eyes drifted to his phone on the coffee table. Almost involuntarily, I picked it up. The password was still my birthday.

It was my first time checking his phone. As expected, it was spotless—too spotless, in fact, to be believable.

When I tapped into the photographer’s chat window, it was completely empty. That alone was enough of an answer.

But when I noticed a group chat labeled “Brother,” curiosity got the better of me. The most recent message read:

"Man, you’re impressive!"

I opened it.

The chat history made my whole body tremble.

"Ethan, aren’t you afraid your wife will find out about this?"

"Not at all. She trusts me completely. She never checks my phone. And even if she did, she’d find nothing. Everything else is on my other phone."

So that was it. No wonder this phone contained nothing but work.

But the next part of their conversation drew me in completely.

"I just don’t get it. Why does your wife trust you so much?"

Ethan replied with a string of smug emojis.

"Women are emotional creatures. They only believe what they want to believe. All I have to do is convince her I’m madly in love with her."

He had attached a photo of himself standing outside my rented apartment, holding a strawberry shortcake and a bouquet of flowers.

That image was seared into my memory.

It was when I had just started working, while Ethan had gotten into a graduate program in Chicago. That was the beginning of our three-year long-distance relationship, separated by thousands of miles.

Back then, stepping into society for the first time had hit me harder than I expected. What I’d learned at school and what was required at work felt worlds apart.

It was Valentine’s Day. My roommates all went out with their boyfriends, while I was stuck working overtime, revising proposals.

Loneliness, longing, and frustration overwhelmed me. I called Ethan, sobbing into the phone.

"Ethan, I’m not asking for anything. I just feel so miserable that you’re not here. School and work are so different, and I miss you so much. I know it sounds childish, but I can’t help it."

On the other end, Ethan soothed me, his voice full of concern. I thought it would be enough just to vent. But the very next morning, he appeared in person—cake in one hand, flowers in the other.

I couldn’t even speak through the flood of tears. He simply opened his arms, and I ran straight into them.

"Why are you here?" I choked out.

He stroked my hair and smiled.

"Silly girl, I couldn’t leave you like that."

That moment left a permanent mark on my heart.

Every fight afterward, I would back down because of that memory.

But now, in the chat, Ethan had said:

"See? It’s because I traveled cross-country overnight to see her that she fell hopelessly in love with me. Whenever we argue, I can always remind her of that night, and she has no defense. Women are easy to sway—as long as you make them feel touched."

"Brilliant, man. Absolutely brilliant!"

My hands shook around the phone.

So this was the truth. What I thought was love was actually leverage he held over me.

When had it started? When had he changed?

We had been together seven years—through college, long-distance, and now, on the verge of marriage.

When did his love turn into manipulation?

I placed the phone back as if nothing had happened, though the stabbing pain in my chest told me everything had changed.

That boy who once bought me breakfast, who faked being sick so we could quarantine together in the library during the pandemic—perhaps he had died long ago, and I was only realizing it now.

By the time Ethan came out of the shower, I was pretending to be asleep.

Ethan tiptoed into bed, careful not to wake me.

Later that night, I listened to his steady breathing, then slipped quietly out of bed.

In his briefcase, I found another phone. I didn’t know the password, but I carefully used his finger to unlock it with the fingerprint sensor.

When the screen lit up, my heartbeat quickened.

I locked myself in the bathroom and began scrolling. The more I saw, the more I realized I had loved a monster all these years.

The phone was full of filth—group chats of scantily clad women, explicit photos, and lewd banter with other men.

"This girl is hot."

"That’s nothing. I’ve seen wilder ones."

Ethan chimed in: "Hook me up!"

My stomach churned. So he had been unfaithful as early as graduate school.

I had always been conservative, wanting to wait until marriage. When I asked Ethan if he thought I was old-fashioned, he had said:

"Baby, how could you think that? If you’re not ready, I’ll respect your choice. You’ll be mine sooner or later."

But that wasn’t respect. He already had countless other options.

I opened a chat labeled “ChloeBaby.”

The girl was Chloe Adams, our wedding photographer.

There were photos and videos of them together in bed. Ethan even praised her beauty.

The worst part was realizing they had hooked up just three days after meeting—right after our first photo session.

He had reduced our seven years to nothing.

So when he said he was reviewing wedding photos, he was really going to see her.

How laughable. What I saw as a sacred step toward marriage had become evidence of my humiliation.

And why her, of all people—the photographer we’d both met together?

Just three days, and he was already in her bed. Then what did our seven years mean?

I struggled to breathe, gasping for air.

I copied the photos and videos, then put his phone back exactly where I found it.

The next morning, Ethan behaved as if nothing had happened—up early, making me breakfast. He played the part of a devoted fiancé. So I decided to play along too.

During breakfast, I feigned casual interest.

"Why don’t we go together to the bridal boutique today? We can check how our wedding photos turned out. If they’re not good, we can choose new ones."

Ethan’s hand hesitated, then he quickly forced a smile.

"Sure. Chloe mentioned they also offer romantic wedding video montages now. We could play one at the ceremony for the guests. If you’d like, we can film one."

"Sounds good." I agreed without hesitation.

At the boutique, when Chloe saw me walk in, the smile on her lips froze. Ethan was the first to recover.

"Oh, we’re here to check on the finished photos."