I'm six years older than Bernard Jackman, but he always smiles and says, "Lucky me. I got to marry you."

I think we will live happily ever after until a message pops up on his phone and shatters the illusion.

"Bernie, be honest. Who's better in bed, me or your wife?"

"Come on. That old hag smells like mothballs. She can't be compared to you!"

And yet, he still showers me with love. How can a man say he loves me while sleeping with another woman?

So, I tear off his mask and leave him.

"Bernard, it's not that I can't live without you! You're filthy, and I don't want you anymore! I can find another man just fine!"

"Honey, I picked up a cake from your favorite bakery. Come on over," Bernard Jackman said.

I laughed, threw myself into his arms, wrapped my arms around his neck, and kissed him.

"Look at you spoiling me with cake," I teased.

He gave me an indulgent smile, scooped me up, and set me gently on the couch.

As always, he was meticulous. He unpacked the cake, poured drinks, and placed everything onto the coffee table.

"Dig in, my little foodie. I'm going to shower."

I nodded and tasted the cake. The moment the first bite hit my tongue, I spit it back out. Confusion prickled through me as I glanced toward the bathroom.

The filling was mango.

I still remember the last time I ate a mango. It sent me to the emergency room with anaphylaxis.

That night, Bernard held my hand without letting go, his eyes reddened as he promised he'd never let mango near me again.

I told myself maybe he had no idea what was in it, but he was always so careful.

The thought stuck like a thorn in my chest.

I walked into the bedroom and, out of habit, straightened the clothes he had tossed on the bed.

Right then, his phone buzzed. A message popped up. "Bernie, the mango cake you took me to get today was so good. Love you, kisses!"

The contact name was "My little foodie".

I stared at the phone for a moment. Then, my fingers moved on their own, entering the passcode I'd known for years.

The next second, the screen unlocked. He had never even bothered to change it. He probably never thought I'd check his phone.

I opened his messages. My thread wasn't the only one pinned to the top. The other belonged to that little foodie.

I tapped it and scrolled all the way up. The visible history started a month ago. Anything older had been wiped.

The very first message struck me like a slap I never saw coming.

"Bernie, come keep me company tonight, okay?"

"Okay. I'll be there. I'll keep you satisfied. Don't tell me you can't take it!"

"You're such a tease. Maybe I should ignore you."

"My bad!"

I kept scrolling, breath caught in my throat, until I saw the line that knocked the air out of me.

"Bernie, be honest. Who's better in bed, me or your wife?"

"Come on. That old hag smells like mothballs. She doesn't hold a candle to you!"

Tears blurred my vision and dripped onto my hand. I wiped them away, steadied myself, and took out my phone to take photos of the messages.

After a while, Bernard walked out of the bathroom, toweling his hair. He took one look at my face and frowned. "Honey, you don't like the cake?"

I hesitated, nodded, then shook my head.

He looked confused and pulled me into his arms.

Just before he leaned in to kiss me, I blurted, "I'm on my period. I'm not feeling great."

He froze, disappointment flashing in his eyes.

I picked up my tablet and pretended to read, counting beats in my head.

…

Ten minutes later, he grabbed his phone and put on a helpless look. "Honey, something came up at the office. I've got to run back."

I smiled like it didn't sting. "Go. Drive safe."

Lately, every time I said I wasn't up for anything, Bernard suddenly had somewhere to be. I'd never questioned it. Now, I felt stupid for not seeing it sooner.

The door clicked shut. The next second, I grabbed my keys and followed.

…

Ten minutes later, his car stopped in front of a villa.

A woman in a maid's costume skipped down the steps to meet him. They didn't even make it inside before they were kissing each other.

My stomach turned. I lifted my phone and took a series of photos.

On the way home, the tears finally came.

We'd met at a friend's party. He went out of his way to win me over.

Everyone said the age gap meant he was just playing. I thought so too at first, but he kept showing up, proving his love to me again and again.

I mentioned I liked fresh chicken soup, and he went to learn it from a chef.

I said my stomach hurt sometimes, and he brewed hot cocoa and stocked a heating pad.

When I worked late, he brought me sliders and fries and waited in the lobby.

I once sighed that Westmere Coast looked beautiful in the travel magazines, and he cleared his calendar and took me there for a long weekend.

When I had a fever, he sat by my bed all night.

To give me peace of mind, he blocked women who flirted with him.

I said I admired men who built a career, and he threw himself into work until everyone called him a rising star.

Later, he spent a fortune flying drones that lit up the skyline and asked me to marry him under a burst of custom fireworks, swearing forever.

I believed him. I let down every guard and said yes.

Time passed, and I never imagined he'd change his mind and find someone new.

Had Bernard changed, or had I never really known him?

Sitting in my car, I suddenly got a call from Bernard. I picked up, but there was only silence on the other end.

I thought he might have called me by accident. I was about to hang up when a familiar voice came through.

"Last night wasn't enough for you? You just can't get enough, can you?" A woman's playful whine followed. "I hate thinking about you going back to that boring old woman. I don't want to share."

Kisses and breathless moans spilled through the line.

Bernard said hoarsely, "Take good care of me now, and I'll stay the night."

They tried a lot of things. I stared at the windshield, stunned.

Thankfully, the moment I heard his voice, I hit the record button. Let the clever little "maid" think she could taunt me with a pocket dial. I already had everything I needed.

After I hung up, I thought for a moment, then created a new account on Instagram and searched the handle I'd memorized.

I sent a request, and she accepted almost immediately. She really had her guard down, even with a stranger.

Bernard didn't come home that night. Apparently, she had kept him very satisfied.

…

The next morning, just as I arrived at the office, Bernard's assistant showed up with a bouquet of roses and a thermos of warm, sweet oatmeal Bernard had made himself.

A minute later, Bernard called. "Honey, I just got notice I have to travel for work. I probably won't be home for the next few days. I swung by to pack and made your favorite oatmeal. Have it while it's hot."

After the call, I opened my Instagram. The "maid" shared a breakfast photo, and there it was—the same sweet oatmeal.

The caption said, "He made me breakfast as a reward for last night."

Bernard once promised he'd never cook for anyone but me.

A coworker stopped by my desk, her eyes lighting up at the roses. "Where do you even find a man this thoughtful and successful?"

To outsiders, Bernard seemed devoted to me. He came across as loyal, refined, and destined for success.

But I wasn't exactly lacking, either. If I could hold his attention, it wasn't by accident. And if he liked me, there were plenty of men who did.

Seeing my colleague admiring the bouquet, I said casually, "You can have it if you like."

Her face lit up. "Really? These flowers are gorgeous! You're not joking, are you?"

I smiled. "Just take it. And I've already had my breakfast. He made sweet oatmeal for me this morning. If you don't mind, you can take it too."

No matter how good it looked, that fake love wasn't worth holding on to.

Over the next few days, the "maid" kept posting on Instagram. Just by watching her Story, I could track their every move.

They went trekking through the rainforest, taking in the sights and sounds.

They watched fireworks at Starfall Park and kissed under the bursts of light.

Bernard took her to my favorite bistro and even cut her steak at the table.

Then, he brought her to a hot-spring retreat, where they indulged every whim.

In between, he bought her multiple sets of lingerie I couldn't even look at without wincing.

I didn't cry or get upset. I just saved every post she was foolish enough to show off.

…

A week later, Bernard finally reached out. "Honey, we haven't been to your favorite restaurant in ages. Want to go this week?"

I almost laughed. He had just taken her there and suddenly remembered me. Was I supposed to be touched?

I didn't call him out. Instead, I asked, "Did you just get back from the trip?"

He slipped into the same sweet tone as always. "Yeah, honey. I'm wiped, but I'm so happy I get to see you."

I simply replied, "Okay."

Since he'd "left for work," I hadn't set foot in the place we shared. I stayed at my own apartment because the condo felt contaminated by him.

…

That night, he came home to the condo buzzing with energy, only to realize I wasn't there.

He sounded wounded over the phone. "Honey, why weren't you here to greet me? Do you know how sad it feels to come home to an empty place? Come on, make it up to me."