The voices of the two faded into the background. I pulled out my phone.

[Honey, are you okay? I just got home. Did she really look for you at your office?]

It was a while before Milton finally replied.

[Don't worry, babe. I've already told them. I was out drinking with Malcolm and the guys last night. It must've been a thief who came in and left something behind.]

I stared at the phone, looking at his weak excuse. He really thought I was a fool, didn't he? We lived on the fourth floor—if someone jumped from there, they'd be dead. A thief wouldn't throw a pair of underwear onto the third floor.

I typed coldly, [That's too creepy. Maybe we should call the police.]

To my surprise, Milton called me immediately.

"No, we can't call the police. Thieves these days are vengeful. Don't you remember the cases I told you about? Anyway, nothing was stolen, so I'll change the lock tomorrow. Don't worry!"

I was as obedient as could be. "Okay, I'll do whatever you say."

I could hear the relief in his voice, though he tried to hide it.

"By the way, babe, I might have to work late tonight. You know how it is, with so many cases coming up for court."

How did his workload as an HR assistant relate to the cases? He wasn't even one of the lawyers reviewing them.

"Okay, take care of yourself," I replied gently.

Later that night, I ordered a cake to be delivered to Milton's office, with instructions to ensure he signed for it and that they took a photo for proof. Of course, he wasn't there, and the cake was returned.

I glanced at the clock on the wall: 7:30 PM.

I sent Milton a link.

[Honey, I want to get this dining table. Can you check if there are any special deals for regulars? I heard the price is the same for both new and old customers. I need the info now!]

It took almost two minutes before he finally replied.

[I see it's 770 dollars here. I'm really busy, babe. I'll talk to you when I get home. XX.]

I didn't even bother to reply. I just logged into his shopping app.

Some men don't lock their phones or keep encrypted files on their computers. They leave everything wide open. But then, they have two accounts, and their phone has a clone. Is that considered a high-level tactic?

When I logged in, I could see the address he had just checked into. The address showed a radius of half a mile, with four hotels, two coffee shops, and one popular restaurant nearby.

I hired seven delivery people, one for each place. In the notes, I told them that I was trying to catch my partner cheating. I also included a description of Milton's appearance and asked them to snap pictures if they saw him with anyone, making sure to get clear shots of both faces. I promised extra pay if they got the photos.

Twenty minutes later, one of the couriers sent me a photo.

[Miss, is this him?]

Under the warm, cozy lights of the trendy restaurant, Milton, dressed in a black shirt and beige pants, was chatting with a woman.

[That's him. I want a picture of her face.]

The woman's photo came in shortly after.

I only glanced at it, but it felt familiar, like I'd seen her somewhere before.

At this point, the task was technically over. But the courier, more outraged than I was, sent me over ten more photos all at once.

There were shots of Milton flirting with the woman, of him fixing her hair, and even one where she leaned in to kiss him...

[Miss, you don't have to pay extra. It's everyone's responsibility to fight against immoral behavior. Oh, and I overheard them talking about a house and a car. Be careful.]

I thanked him and sent him a 30-dollar tip.

Putting my phone down, I took a long, deep breath, but my nose started to sting with a familiar bitterness.

Milton wasn't just thinking about other women—he was thinking about my house, my car—everything except the six years we'd spent together.

I stood up and rummaged through the closet for what felt like ages until I finally found an old photo album.

It didn't take long to flip through it and find the woman. In one group photo, she stood behind Milton; in another, just her half-face appeared beside him and his friends. There was even a candid shot of Milton alone, but in the background, I could see her hanging out with friends. I had no doubt about it—they had been involved, or at the very least, Milton had been secretly in love with her.

It didn't really hurt, though. I'd always had a strong sense of self-preservation, but the feeling was still revolting—like chewing on a piece of gum someone else had spit out.

Just as I was about to put the album back, I noticed a crumpled photo of Milton and me, which he'd promised to keep safe. Instead, he had tossed it aside and used it like a mat for the album containing that woman's picture.

It was so pathetic it almost made me laugh.

Once I had a lead, everything else came easily.

Using Milton's birthday, his lucky number, and even a work ID he had once used, I pieced everything together. After an hour, I managed to find his secret social media account. His profile picture was a close-up of his hands on a steering wheel, and his profile name was a combination of his and that woman's birthdays.

The most recent post was chilling. [A buried rose will one day be lifted by the spring rain and bloom again. My love, the source of my longing—she has been waiting for me all along.]

The location attached to it was that popular restaurant from last night. The photo showed just two pairs of intertwined hands.

I suddenly remembered the times he had regular business trips, the "wrong" deliveries he'd always conveniently get, and how he'd refuse my calls, claiming to be working late. She was the "buried rose", but what was I? The discounted tulip at a flower shop, a buy-one-get-one-free offer?

So much was clear now.

I scrolled through more of his messages—mostly mundane texts about trivial affairs—until I found the one from three years ago, the day he had proposed to me.

[Marrying a woman you don't love is like eating a dish without seasoning—bland and tasteless, yet you can't bear to throw it away.]

At that moment, no amount of deep breaths could suppress my anger. I felt like a puppet on stage, forced to deliver lines, with only Milton's mocking face in the crowd. The suffocating wave of nausea nearly consumed me.

After the storm of emotions subsided, I calmly shut my laptop and tore up every single photo of us together.

That evening, the door creaked open, and Milton sneaked in, trying to be quiet.

I didn't acknowledge him, pretending to be asleep. He lingered in the darkness, watching me for a moment, and when I didn't react, he climbed into bed, satisfied.

The next morning, I woke up early, and Milton was still sleeping soundly. I went to the living room and, as expected, found the pair of underwear I was looking for in his bag.

Downstairs, I called my best friend. "Help me look up someone. I have shopping records."

I started the car, planning to visit the real estate office to check on property transactions. Suddenly, I felt something sharp poking at me from underneath the seat. I reached down and pulled out a black lace bra.

Clearly, it matched the underwear.

This car was usually Milton's—since I worked near home, I usually took the subway. This meant their entanglement that night had probably started in this very car.

I couldn't help but laugh bitterly at myself. I shoved the items into a bag with a stick, changed my destination, and drove off.

Twenty minutes later, I was in the police station.

"Yes, my boyfriend said we had a break-in. The neighbors can vouch for it. They left these behind. Officer, I'm not overreacting—think about it. If they were scouting my house, that would mean I'm in danger, right?

"They didn't even break the door lock to get in. Could they have used some high-tech tools? There must be fingerprints or DNA on it. Please check carefully.

"Even if they didn't steal anything, this person is a creep. We have many single women in our building.

"Yes, my boyfriend is at home. Should I have him come in to cooperate with the investigation? Sure, no problem."

I quickly called Milton, and half an hour later, he showed up at the police station in his pajamas, looking disheveled.

"Your girlfriend says this lingerie set was left behind by the thief, and that you can verify that. Do you have any information that can help us?" the officer asked.

Milton's face darkened. I couldn't bring myself to look at him. I was afraid I'd burst out laughing.

He glanced from me to the officer, looking completely lost.

"Officer, m-my girlfriend misunderstood. This lingerie actually belongs to my cousin."

The officer frowned immediately. "What's going on with you two? Do you think this is some kind of joke? What game are you playing?"

Milton froze, panic seizing him. He shot me a look filled with resentment.

"Officer, it's just a misunderstanding. She's just easily scared. I'll take her home right away!"

He reached for me, but I stepped back, firm and unyielding.

"Honey, you're too kind. I know you don't want to trouble the police, but didn't you just say yesterday that a thief left this behind?" I took a step forward, cutting him off before he could speak. "Officer, my boyfriend doesn't like causing trouble, but this isn't something that only concerns the two of us. What if the thief breaks into someone else's home and kills someone?"

Milton was sweating profusely now, his eyes darting around, trying to signal me.

But I acted as though I didn't see.

"Doesn't this have fingerprints and DNA on it? You can test it!"