Seven years of marriage, and I'd never once attended a Henson family banquet.

Dragon Boat Festival. Mid-Autumn Festival. New Year's. Every holiday, I spent alone.

Because Yvette Henson had told me the Henson family had an ancestral rule—no one outside the bloodline was permitted at the banquet. Not even a husband who'd married into the family.

I'd believed her without question. Until the night before New Year's Eve, when I found three photographs in her car.

All three were taken at the Henson family banquet.

In every one, the same man stood beside her.

Their bodies close. Fingers intertwined.

That's when I understood. It was never about keeping outsiders out.

It was about who was allowed in.

And that person wasn't me.

——

I studied the photos, then quietly put them back.

I sat in the driver's seat for a long time without moving.

Then my phone screen lit up. Yvette's name.

"How's the car looking? Come home soon—dinner's waiting."

I typed back "On my way," then started the engine.

When I walked through the door, warm light and the smell of home-cooked food washed over me. Yvette was in loungewear, setting out bowls and chopsticks. She glanced up with a smile. "So? Nothing major wrong with my car, right?"

"Just a nail in the tire. Already patched."

I hung up my coat. My voice came out so steady it surprised even me.

Over dinner, I picked up a piece of the sweet-and-sour ribs she'd made and kept my tone casual.

"By the way—tomorrow's New Year's Eve. The Henson family banquet... I'm still not allowed to go?"

Her chopsticks paused mid-reach. That familiar crease appeared between her brows, her expression settling into something almost weary.

"Louis Dickerson, haven't we been over this?" Her voice carried its usual soothing cadence. "It's an ancestral rule. No outsiders at the banquet—not even husbands who married in."

"I wish you could come. I really do. But my hands are tied."

She reached over and laid her hand on top of mine.

"Don't be upset. I'll be back first thing New Year's Day."

"It's just one night."

Over the past seven years, we'd had this exact conversation countless times. Every single one ended the same way—my concession, her gentle reassurance.

I used to believe it. Truly. That there was a wall between us, built from tradition, too high for me to climb.

Now I knew the wall was never real.

The door simply hadn't been opened for me.

"It's fine." I pulled my hand back and picked up my soup bowl. "Let's eat."

She looked at me. Something flickered in her eyes—a faint trace of confusion.

But the sound of laughter from the TV pulled her attention away.

After dinner, she stood to clear the table. "Go take your shower first. I'll handle the dishes tonight."

I nodded but didn't move.

The sound of running water drifted from the kitchen. I stood and walked to the handbag she'd left on the couch.

My heart thudded heavily in my chest. One beat. Then another.

Seven years of marriage, and I had never touched her personal belongings. I'd given her all the space and trust a husband could give.

Now that trust felt like the cruelest joke I'd ever been part of.

Her phone screen lit up at my touch. Password or fingerprint required.

I picked it up and carried it to the kitchen doorway.

The water was running loud. Her back was to me as she scrubbed the dishes.

I eased the edge of the phone against her finger where it hung at her side.

Unlock successful.

Back in the living room, I scrolled through quickly.

Social media. Texts. Call history.

Most of it was clean—consistent with the way she'd always kept things, minimal and tidy.

Until I opened a chat thread labeled "Project Team – Theo Gilbert."

The messages were sparse, spread out over long intervals. But each one was a needle, thin and precise.

"Same place tomorrow?"

"Mm, I miss you."

"Want to take one together this year? Like we always do."

"Sure."

The last message was timestamped this afternoon, with a photo thumbnail attached.

I tapped it open. It was that third photo.

The Henson family banquet. The two of them standing side by side, his arm around her waist, her head tilted slightly toward his shoulder.

The timestamp on the photo read this year's Mid-Autumn Festival.

I scrolled up. Nearly every year—around New Year, Mid-Autumn, Dragon Boat Festival—there were similar brief exchanges and photos sent back and forth.

Nothing explicit. But the messages were steeped in an intimacy that needed no words, a quiet understanding between two people who knew each other completely.

"What are you looking at?"

Yvette's voice came from behind me.

My finger flinched. The screen went dark.

I turned around. She'd already finished the dishes and was drying her hands, her gaze settling on the phone in my hand.

"Louis, why do you have my phone?"

"Thought I heard it ringing." I handed it back, my expression unchanged. "It kept buzzing. You looked busy."

She took it, eyes darting to the screen, then back to me—studying my face, gauging how much truth was in my words.

The screen was dark. She'd have to unlock it again to see anything.

The suspicion in her eyes gradually faded.

"I'm going to shower."

The bathroom door closed and the water started running. I sat on the edge of the bed, listening to the steady rush of it, a tangle of emotions I couldn't begin to sort through.

A few minutes later, the water stopped.

Yvette stepped out wrapped in nothing but a towel, her damp hair draped over her shoulders. Droplets traced the line of her collarbone and disappeared.

She carried the warm, humid air of the shower with her as she sat down beside me.

"Honey, it's been a while since we..."

Before tonight, a hint like that would have undone me in an instant. She knew exactly how to unravel my restraint.

But now—that pale skin, the wisps of steam rising from her body—it all sent a sour wave churning through my stomach.

The photos flashed behind my eyes, unbidden.

The same her. Had she done this with Theo Gilbert too?

On all those holiday nights I'd spent alone, had they—

I shifted away from her touch before I even realized I was doing it.

She froze. The edge of the towel slipped without her noticing. She just stared at me, bewildered.

"What's wrong? You don't want to?"

"Just tired."

I stood and walked to the water dispenser, filling a glass with cold water.

The chill slid down my throat, barely enough to tamp down the suffocating knot in my chest.

"Ran around to a lot of places today."

She sat in silence, her body taut beneath the towel.

"Yvette, what if—hypothetically." I kept my back to her, staring out at the city lights beyond the window. "What if an outsider really did attend the Henson family banquet? What would happen?"

Behind me came the soft rustle of fabric. She pulled the towel tighter.

"What do you think would happen? The family rules aren't just for show."

"At best, a public dressing-down and being made to kneel in the ancestral hall. At worst..."

"You know how my father is—old-fashioned to the bone when it comes to tradition. If it blew up, he'd have my name struck from the family register. Thrown out of the Henson family entirely."

She paused, then added, "So it's really not that I don't want to bring you. The price is just too high."

The price is just too high.

My grip tightened around the glass.

"Got it."

"I'll sleep in the guest room tonight. I'm tired. Just need some quiet."

She hesitated but didn't ask me to stay.

Lying in the guest room bed, I didn't sleep. Not for a single hour. My mind wouldn't stop.

It started from that very first New Year's Eve after we got married.

We'd only been married a short while then. I sat alone in the empty living room, listening to firecrackers popping near and far outside the window, and called her.

She said the family dinner was in full swing, the elders were all there, and it wasn't a good time to talk. Her voice was gentle as she told me to treat myself to something nice.

I believed her. I even felt sorry for her—having to steal a moment in the middle of all that celebration just to think of me, alone.

The following year, during the Mid-Autumn Festival, I made the snowskin mooncakes she loved and had someone deliver them to the Henson residence. They vanished without a trace.

The next day, she said she'd gotten them. Delicious, she told me, but the family dinner had strict etiquette—she couldn't exactly pull them out and share.

I believed her. I even blamed myself for not thinking it through.

Year after year.

The same excuse. The same tenderness.

The same me, alone in the same solitude, never once doubting.

Until those three photographs—like three ice-cold keys—unlocked the door to the truth.

Outside the window, dawn crept in. I heard faint movement from the master bedroom.

Yvette was awake.

Before long, she tiptoed through her morning routine—washing up, getting dressed—without coming to the guest room to wake me the way she usually did.

The front door clicked shut. Her footsteps faded down the hallway.

I threw off the covers, pulled on a jacket, and grabbed my car keys.

In the underground garage, her white sedan glided out of its spot.

I hung back a few cars' length and followed.

She didn't take the road toward the Henson estate. Instead, she turned east, heading for the upscale apartment district on the other side of the city.

The car stopped outside a gated complex. A moment later, a man in casual clothes stepped out.

He was smiling—easy, familiar—as he opened the passenger door and slid in.

Theo Gilbert.

The man from the photographs came into sharp focus.

They didn't leave right away. Through the windshield, I watched Yvette lean toward him. They held each other tightly.

Then came a long, deep kiss.

Their movements were practiced and effortless, as though they'd done this a thousand times before.

The occasional passerby drifted through the complex entrance. Neither of them cared.

My heartbeat was steady. Too steady.

The rage I'd expected, the sting, the suffocation—none of it came. Just a vast, frozen silence.

Maybe this was what it truly felt like when the heart dies.

The white sedan pulled away again, heading into the most upscale mall in the city center.

I parked, tugged my cap low over my eyes, and followed them inside.

They moved through the crowds like any other couple. Yvette had her arm looped through Theo's, and on her face was a radiant smile I had never once seen directed at me.

They walked into a high-end menswear boutique. She picked through shirts and jackets, holding them up against his chest while he grinned and dipped his head to oblige her. In the end, she swiped her card for a complete set—shirt, trousers, jacket, the works.

Next was a shoe store. She crouched down and personally helped him try on a pair of leather shoes that cost more than I wanted to think about.

The sales associate hovered nearby, offering compliments. Yvette looked up at Theo, her eyes bright.

Finally, they stepped into the luxury watch boutique I had walked past countless times but never dared enter.

Through the glass, I watched Theo's gaze land on a mechanical timepiece behind the counter. He tapped the display case.

Yvette barely hesitated. She waved the clerk over.

Card swiped. Gift wrapped. Just like that.

I stood behind a pillar not far away, my throat tightening.

Seven years of marriage. Apart from a pair of ordinary socks picked up at a department store, Yvette had never bought me a single piece of clothing.

She knew I loved watches. More than once, I'd lingered in front of magazine ads or storefront displays.

Every time I cautiously brought up the idea of upgrading to a nicer watch, she would furrow her brow just slightly and say, in that soft but unyielding tone of hers, "Accessories like that are too expensive. They're not worth it."

"We'll have plenty of expenses down the road. No sense spending money on something like that."

And I would fall silent, sheepish, pressing that small want back down where it came from.

Now, without so much as a blink, she'd bought another man the very thing that "wasn't worth it."