Love Betrayed: A Heart's Agony

On our fifth wedding anniversary day, I quietly slipped into my wife, Rosalie Lane’s office, planning to surprise her.

But instead, I found a photograph hidden in her drawer.

In the picture, Rosalie was passionately kissing her first love.

What hit me hardest was the pure white wedding dress she was wearing.

As I stood there, seething with anger, a message from Rosalie lit up my phone.

[Honey, I have to go to a hotel with Blake tonight for work. I won’t be home for dinner.]

[Be good and wait for me at home, okay? Love you.]

——

I almost ripped the photo to pieces, but after taking a deep breath, I forced myself to calm down.

Instead, I grabbed my phone and replied. [Okay.]

Then, I flipped the photo over. On the back, in elegant handwriting, were the words. [My beauty blooms only for the one I love most.]

It was Rosalie’s handwriting.

When we first started dating, we used to send each other letters all the time, so I’d recognize her writing anywhere.

Reading that line snuffed out the last bit of hope I had.

I threw the flowers and gifts I’d brought into the trash and walked out of her office.

The afternoon sun was glaring and harsh, but I felt nothing but just a coldness that seeped into my bones, making me shiver like I’d been plunged into an ice bath.

The chill, the despair, made me want to numb it all.

When I got home, I sank into the couch, lost in my thoughts, not eating, not drinking, just chain-smoking.

I thought back to how I first met Rosalie, a beautiful, chance encounter.

I was twenty-five, and she was twenty-one. We were both single, on the same tour.

I remember helping her with her luggage a few times, and in return, she bought me drinks and ice cream.

We got close fast, and at every stop, I was the one taking photos for her.

When the trip ended, we went back to our own cities but stayed in touch.

A year later, I quit a promising job and moved to her city.

We got to know each other better, fell in love, and eventually got married.

Everyone who knew us envied me, saying I was lucky to have such a wonderful wife.

I loved Rosalie deeply and gave her everything I had.

When she cried, I comforted her.

When she laughed, I laughed with her.

I kissed away her tears and washed her feet.

Her every smile, every frown, everything about her tugged at my heart.

I did everything I could to make her happy, never letting myself slack off.

But after five years of trying so hard, I’ve come to realize the marriage I thought was my greatest happiness was nothing more than an illusion, a complete and utter lie.

Around 1 a.m., Rosalie finally came home.

She smelled like alcohol, and the smoke in her hair was even stronger than mine.

She looked surprised to see me sitting on the couch.

“Honey, it’s so late. Why aren’t you asleep?”

I blew out a smoke ring and said, “I couldn’t sleep.”

She sat down next to me, wrapping her arms around mine. Her legs, wrapped in black stockings, crossed over each other, looking incredibly tempting.

“Honey, is it because you can’t sleep without me?”

When we first got married, Rosalie told me she hated stockings and high heels.

She thought they were torture devices meant to please men, making women suffer.

But a few months ago, she started wearing stockings almost every day, switching up the styles and patterns.

When I asked her why, she didn’t answer but just told me to stop being nosy.