Past thirty, my usually serious husband suddenly developed a fascination with pink. The dark-colored furniture that had stayed the same for ten years was replaced with pink; even the utensils he picked up casually were pink.

I stared at the line of pink pajamas, pink bow ties, and pink underwear hanging out to dry on the balcony, feeling something was off. "I thought you said you hated pink—that it was a color only women liked?"

He was unpacking a new pink bed set and didn't even look up. "Oh, Jack and I made a bet. If I can replace everything in the house with pink, he'll give me his seaside villa for free. Honestly, after looking at it for a while, pink isn't that bad, don't you think?"

I neither agreed nor disagreed. Instead, I called Jack, who blurted out, "What seaside villa? I don't remember ever buying one!"

Powder Pink

After hanging up the phone, I glanced toward the bedroom, where Colin Stone was completely immersed in a sea of pink.

My gut told me he was cheating. But after being together for more than a decade, I liked to think I knew him well enough not to jump to conclusions. Still, after some hesitation, I decided to ask Jack again. Maybe he had said something casually before and just forgotten about it.

The next second, as if he had read my mind, Jack's message arrived. 'Hey, Anya, my bad. I just remembered what you asked earlier. Yeah, that thing really did happen—it was at Colin's birthday. The guys had too much to drink, and I joked that if he redecorated his entire house in pink, I'd give him the seaside villa. It's been a while, so I forgot. Sorry, really didn't mean to make you worry. Don't get the wrong idea about Colin, okay?'

I stared at Jack's clumsy explanation and replied simply, 'It's fine.'

Colin's birthday was two months ago. His sudden obsession with pink had started only a month back. Another excuse full of holes.

Looking around at the pink couch cover beneath me, I finally sent a message to my assistant. 'Find out what Colin's been up to.'

Once that was done, I took a slow look around the house at all the pink things scattered everywhere. From the smallest utensil to the largest piece of furniture—even the curtains—everything pink seemed to crawl across my skin, filling me with a wave of unease and disgust.

I had just finished putting away several pink ornaments when Colin walked out of the bedroom, holding up a pink stuffed toy like a prize. “Anya, isn't it cute?”

The moment he caught sight of my blank expression, his tone shifted immediately. “If you don't like it, I'll toss it. No need for it to bother you.”

He walked to the trash can, paused briefly when he saw that I had already thrown away the pink vase he'd brought home, then silently tossed the stuffed toy in too.

When he turned back to me, his smile was soft. “I thought you'd like these things. But if you don't, I'll get rid of everything once my bet with Jack's over, okay?”

Colin seemed to have forgotten that I'd never had any fondness for things that were cute or childish.

I stayed quiet the rest of the evening, and he eventually replaced the pink bed set with the old one.

That night, he suddenly pressed me down. “Still mad at me?”

As he spoke, the pink stud in his left ear glinted under the light—something he'd started wearing only a month ago. A wave of irritation rose in my chest. I pushed him away and said no. Only then did he stop, as if he'd completed some sort of task, and took his phone into the bathroom. He never came out again.

A sudden thought hit me. I opened his laptop—the password was my birthday. The moment I logged into his chat app, messages started to sync. A woman with a pink profile picture had sent him a text.

'Did you wear the pink underwear I bought for you?'

My heart lurched as I saw Colin's reply.

'Yeah, I did.'

The woman said she wanted proof, and without hesitation, Colin sent her a photo. She replied with satisfaction, 'Good puppy.'

My mind reeled as I scrolled up through their chat, reading more messages that made my stomach twist. In my eyes, Colin had always been a straight-laced man. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine I'd one day find out he was calling another woman "Mommy".

I opened the woman's social media page. Everything was pink—though she never showed her face. She updated frequently: matching pink pajamas, themed hotel rooms, pink slippers, all sorts of pink props.

In her videos, the man sometimes knelt, sometimes lay down, but his face was always hidden. Still, I recognized him instantly from the deep ring mark on his left ring finger.

It was Colin.

My husband of ten years.

Blush

The woman flaunted everything on social media. Every post made me cringe.

'Puppy Training Guide.'

'Puppy's a little naughty today.'

'Out walking my puppy today—have you taken yours out yet?'

My fingers burned as I scrolled, my whole body sizzling as though I were being fried alive. I could hardly believe that Colin—my straight-laced, old-fashioned husband of more than a decade—had such a twisted fetish.

I remembered when we once stumbled across a post about this kind of kink online. Colin's face had been full of disgust. He'd even said those people were sick. But when I scrolled to the woman's post from a month ago, she had written gleefully, 'The aloof, mature man I've been chasing finally agreed to be my puppy! Guys, tell me I'm not dreaming!'

The memory of that night flashed before my eyes. Colin had been unusually excited. A man who'd always treated intimacy like routine suddenly couldn't get enough of me—tossing, flipping, pulling me close again and again. I'd thought he was just in high spirits after coming back from a work trip, that we were reliving that spark from when we were newlyweds.

Now I knew the truth. That night had been the last time he acted human.

His "Mommy" was still sending messages. Their chat thread was enough to make me sick. The bathroom door creaked, so I quickly shut the laptop and lay down on the bed.

…

When Colin came back, he got into bed without saying a word. The silence in the room was suffocating. I couldn't sleep. My mind kept replaying our years together, frame by frame.

We had both endured long, difficult years growing up—until we found each other. We encouraged one another, witnessed every milestone in each other's lives. I had stood by him when he had nothing, watched him rise to a fortune worth millions. We'd gone from sharing everything to sharing nothing but a bed.

I still remembered when he was 18, kneeling on one knee, his eyes burning. "Anya, marry me. You'll be the only one for me in this lifetime."

Now, at 34, he lay with his back to me, the glow from his phone lighting up the ceiling—and the tears in my eyes.

I couldn't understand it. Why had he changed so suddenly? Had he been hiding this all along, or had I just never truly known him? The man who used to blush when I held his hand in public, who never dared kiss me outside, felt like he'd died somewhere in my memories.

…

I stayed awake until morning. After Colin left for work, I finally got out of bed. My assistant had sent me the report.

When I opened it and saw the young woman's face, I flipped through the photos again and again to make sure I wasn't mistaken. The woman was Poppy Everett—the same girl Colin and I had sponsored years ago.

Seven years ago, she was 13 when we visited her. She'd held my hand and whispered shyly, "Anya, you and Colin are so kind to me—you're just like my parents."

Now, at 20, she was no longer that frail little girl, but beautiful and radiant.

I had once worried about her growing up in such an environment. I'd even told her that if anyone ever bullied her, she should come to me. I never imagined the person with bad intentions would be the man lying next to me every night.

I began to piece things together, wondering when and how the two of them started this affair. How old had Poppy been then? The more I thought about it, the sicker I felt—until I ran to the trash can and threw up violently.

When the nausea subsided, I walked into the living room. On the table sat a pink mug filled with milk Colin had made for me. I was lactose intolerant. But on Poppy's social media, she had posted, 'Puppy gave me every last drop of his milk.'

I vomited again.

I hurled the mug to the floor, and the crash of shattering glass did nothing to calm me. I kept smashing the pink things around the room until I finally came to my senses, slumped on the ruined pink sofa, and grabbed my phone.

"Draft the divorce papers," I said hoarsely. "As soon as possible."

My assistant must have heard the strain in my voice. "Ms. Leighton, are you all right?"

How could I be? Betrayed by two people closest to me—how could anyone be fine? But I didn't have time to wallow in heartbreak.

"Find the best attorney and a private investigator."

Her tone sharpened with determination. "Understood, Ms. Leighton. I promise you won't be disappointed."

Rose Tint

A few days later, I received a call from the private investigator and went to the hotel.

It was Poppy's mother's birthday. Colin had used a business trip as an excuse but had secretly arranged for Poppy's family and friends to gather there to celebrate.

I watched him move about confidently, organizing everything as though he were one of their own. Then I saw Poppy—dressed in layers of ruffled fabric like a frosted cake—glide toward him like a princess and slip her arm through his.

Her relatives and friends burst into teasing laughter.

"Colin, our Poppy's yours now—treat her well, you hear?"

"That's what it means to pluck the rose you have raised."

I stood there watching as Colin, caught up in the moment, actually called Poppy's parents "Mom" and "Dad". It would've been laughable—if it hadn't been so revolting. He was only ten years younger than they were.

…

Midway through dinner, Poppy got drunk. Colin led her toward the bathroom. In the hallway, she tiptoed up, fingers under his chin, their faces brushing close. "Say it—call me Mommy."

People were walking by, and Colin looked uneasy, coaxing her in a low voice. "Later, okay? When we get back."

But Poppy wouldn't let him go until he finally gave in, whispering "Mommy" again and again while holding her in his arms.

Seeing it with my own eyes and hearing it with my own ears hit harder than any report or photo could. I had thought I was already numb to the truth, but the sight of it still sent shockwaves through my head.

I leaned against the wall, forcing down the bile rising in my throat.

And suddenly, memories came flooding back.

I remembered the first time Colin took me to his hometown. His parents had criticized me for my education, picking me apart right to my face. Colin had grabbed my hand and walked out with me without a word. The sunset had reflected in his teary eyes, planting a seed of tenderness in my heart.

"Anya," he said, "I won't let anyone in this world mistreat you—not even me."

Then, I remembered our first visit to Poppy. The little girl had put on new clothes she'd probably saved for months, clutching a small bouquet of wildflowers as she smiled up at us with innocent joy. "Anya, Colin, I hope you'll always be happy together."

Why was it always the kind ones who got betrayed? Why did doing good only seem to lead to pain?

A cold wave spread through me. My hands trembled as I slid down the wall. Not far away, Poppy's spoiled, sugary voice carried over. "When are you going to divorce that old woman?"

Her pink Mary Janes pressed over Colin's black dress shoes, her slender arms looped around his neck. "Colin, I know you feel guilty. Sometimes I do too. Anya's been nothing but good to me, but from the moment I fell for you, I swore I'd never give up, no matter how hard it got. It's fine if you don't want to divorce her. Don't worry—when the day comes that you're tired of me, I'll leave and never bother you again."

At those words, Colin's long silence finally broke. A flash of panic crossed his face. "I'm not letting you leave me."

The words crashed into me like a free fall. It felt like I'd been clinging to the edge of a cliff for months, terrified and trembling—and the rope had finally snapped. The pain, at last, had an ending.

I gathered every piece of evidence, printed out his bank records, and organized everything neatly for the lawyer. Then, I called Colin. It took ten tries before he finally picked up.

"Anya, what is it?" Before I could speak, his voice turned impatient. "Can this wait? I'm in a meeting—"

I cut him off, calm and deliberate. "Colin, we need to talk."

Because of my upbringing, I had always been sensitive, prone to overthinking—and Colin knew that better than anyone.

Years ago, when I found a single strand of another woman's hair on his coat, I had quietly followed the trail to a female business partner who'd been flirting with him. For the sake of his company, I had pretended not to know. But Colin had been the one to end the partnership himself, looking me straight in the eyes. "Anya, I know how easily you worry. I'll never give you a reason to feel insecure again."

Now, in a voice steady and cold, I said each word clearly. "Colin, if you still remember the years we spent together, come home."