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."

All because his eyes held something unmistakable—desire.

Theo lifted his wrist, letting her fasten the new watch for him.

They smiled at each other, fingers intertwining.

The watch face caught the cold overhead lights of the department store, throwing a glare that made my eyes sting.

Carrying bags of all sizes, they didn't bother shopping anymore. They headed straight to a hotel.

I watched them check in with my own eyes. Watched them step into the elevator.

Five minutes later, I pulled out my phone and dialed Yvette's number.

It rang six or seven times before she picked up. I could hear a television in the background.

"Hello? Honey?"

My voice was steady. "Where are you?"

"I just got to my parents' place. I'm busy helping set up for tonight's dinner. What's wrong?"

"Yvette." I spoke slowly. "My heart... something's wrong. I can't breathe. The pain is bad."

Silence on the other end.

She knew about my heart condition.

It wasn't serious, but it had always been a risk.

"Why so sudden... Did you take your medication?"

"I did, but it doesn't seem to be working. Can you come back? I need you to drive me to the hospital. I don't think I can drive myself..."

My words came in fragments, punctuated by ragged breaths.

"I..."

She was clearly torn.

Coming back meant abandoning Theo, who'd just checked into the hotel. It also meant fabricating a reason for leaving the Henson family dinner.

But not coming back—what if something really happened to me?

During those few seconds of hesitation, a man's voice drifted through the phone, barely audible: "Vivi, I'm out of the shower. Water's the perfect temperature."

Yvette realized immediately that I might have heard. That brief hesitation shattered into panic.

"Louis, I really can't get away right now!"

"A bunch of the elders are already here, and my dad's watching everything!"

"Just call 911 yourself! Hurry!"

Her words tumbled out fast and frantic, laced with the kind of urgency that only comes from trying to cover something up.

"I have to hang up—they're calling for me!"

The line went dead. Clean and final.

I slowly lowered the phone. The screen faded to black.

The last flicker of hope inside me went dark with it.

I glanced at the hotel one more time, then turned and walked away.

By the time I got home, dusk had settled over the city. Firecrackers popped somewhere in the distance.

My phone buzzed. A friend had sent a file, with a note: "Got what you asked for last night. Read it, and stay calm."

I opened it. A detailed background profile and timeline.

Theo Gilbert. Yvette's neighbor. Same age. They'd attended the same schools from kindergarten through high school.

In the photos, a boy and a girl growing up side by side—bright eyes, easy smiles, no distance between them.

The file described him as the closest presence throughout her entire youth.

If he hadn't insisted on studying abroad after high school, their families would have arranged a marriage long ago.

And then came a line in bold—a date that cut into me like a blade.

Theo Gilbert's first return to the country fell exactly on the eighty-seventh day of my marriage to Yvette.

That New Year's Eve. A five-star hotel in the city. Check-in records for both of them.

Their first hotel room together—on the very night I'd sat alone in front of the television, listening to firecrackers outside the window, waiting for her call that said nothing more than "the family dinner's keeping me busy."

I set the phone down, walked to the corner of the living room, and pulled out a suitcase. I started packing.

There weren't many clothes. Most were old things from before the marriage. Yvette would glance at them occasionally, say offhandedly that I should throw them out—but she'd never once bought me anything new.

The books on the shelf were all related to my work. She never touched them.

A slightly outdated DSLR camera. I'd wanted to document our life together, but I'd rarely had the chance to photograph her.

The last thing I found was a photo album, buried at the bottom of the bedroom drawer. It was thin—barely anything to it.

The first page was where Yvette and I had met.

A party arranged by mutual friends. In the photo, she sat in a corner, the lighting dim around her. Her profile was soft, but her eyes had a haze to them, gazing at something beyond the frame that I couldn't name. That air of detachment tinged with quiet melancholy—it had drawn me in completely.

The next few pages were scattered snapshots from when I was pursuing her.

The flowers I sent—she accepted them with a polite smile.

The movie I took her to—she fell asleep in the theater.

The meal I fumbled my way through cooking—she took one bite, said it was fine, not bad.

In every single photo, my smile was eager, earnest. Her response was always muted, distant. You could feel the difference in temperature even through the paper.

I'd told myself she was just reserved by nature. That she needed more patience, more warmth.

Further in, the wedding photos.

She wore a white gown. Beautiful. But her gaze drifted.

There was a close-up of the ring exchange—my head bowed in concentration as I slid the band onto her finger. She was looking down at the ring on her hand, her brows drawn together almost imperceptibly, her lips pressed into a thin line. That expression wasn't one of emotion. It was... struggle.

The photographer had laughed and said the bride was too moved for words. I believed him.

Now, looking again, it was unmistakable—an instinctive resistance, laced with sorrow.

The last photo was a selfie taken at home on our wedding night.

I had my arm around her, grinning from ear to ear.

She leaned against my shoulder, the corner of her mouth curved upward, but her eyes looked past the camera into some vast, hollow distance.

I closed the album. My fingertips were ice.

It had all been there from the beginning—every sign, every signal.

Her melancholy was never about her personality. Her distance was never something that could be warmed away. There had always been someone else living in her heart. A past I'd never truly been part of. An appointment she kept, the same time every year, without fail.

My place in her life was perhaps nothing more than a rest stop—somewhere to pause after her plans had veered off course.

And I'd mistaken it for the destination.

Today, I finally understood. Seven years of what I thought was a loving marriage had been nothing but a carefully woven lie.

I placed the album in my suitcase and zipped it shut.

I looked around the house I'd lived in for seven years.

The decor was in the Henson family's taste. The furniture was Yvette's selection. Even the paintings on the walls were the cool-toned abstracts she preferred.

My presence had never truly changed a single note of this space.

I picked up my phone and called a friend.

"Finished watching?"

"Yeah." My voice was steady. "I need you to draft a divorce agreement for me."

"You sure about this? What about assets?"

"I'm walking away with nothing." My tone was calm. "The house, the car, the savings—it's all under the Henson name or hers."

"I didn't bring much into this marriage to begin with. I'll take what's mine and go. There's nothing to divide."

Silence on the other end for a few seconds. "You're letting her off too easy. She's the one who cheated. At the very least—"

"No need." I cut him off. "The faster the better. Keep the terms simple. All I want now is my freedom."

I hung up and sank back into the couch.

Outside the window, the sky had gone completely dark. City lights flickered on one by one. Another New Year's Eve was approaching.

In years past, this was when I'd start preparing a dinner for one.

But tonight, I had no appetite at all.

About an hour later, my friend sent over the digital copy of the agreement.

The terms were clean and simple, exactly as I'd asked.

I read it through, signed it, and sent it directly to Yvette.

I attached only one line:

"Happy New Year. Let's divorce."

"Let's get a divorce."