After my husband, Joseph Adams, hired thugs to smash my taco stand again, I pushed the destroyed remains to his company’s anniversary banquet.

Joseph had his arm around his little secretary, Monica Martin, when he announced that she would soon be joining the company’s management team.

I pressed the horn and called out, “Tacos for sale to support my husband’s mistress—three thirty a piece!”

Amid the stunned and bewildered stares of the crowd, Joseph’s brows twisted into a deep frown.

It was an ordinary day, just like when I discovered Joseph Adams’s affair.

The only difference was that it was the first time he lost his temper because someone served his tea one minute late.

Joseph had always been good-natured.

As his thoughtful wife, I immediately contacted his assistant, Harry Bolton.

That was when I learned that the new secretary intern who had arrived that day had made many elementary mistakes.

“She’s just an intern. If she’s not capable, fire her,” I said casually.

There was a brief silence on the other end of the line.

“Mr. Adams wants her to learn from him.”

I gave a vague response, but the uncertainty in my chest continued to swell.

Yet until I went through Joseph’s phone, I remained convinced that perhaps he was simply being kind.

On the chat screen:

Joseph: [The format is wrong. Rewrite it.]

Monica: [This is so hard, Mr. Adams. Which font size is bigger, size five or size four?]

Joseph: [Size four.]

Monica: [Hehe, I guessed size four too! I’m so smart—I deserve a little cake as a reward!]

Joseph: [Hmm…]

Compared to accepting that Joseph had cheated, what I found even harder to swallow

was that the other woman was Monica Martin.

My chest felt painfully tight.

When Joseph came out of the bathroom, I handed him the phone.

On the chat screen, Monica had thrown out another question:

[Which two keys are copy and paste? I forgot again!]

She even added a crying emoji.

I had personally helped her choose her university major in computer science.

She should never have had to ask such a question.

“Make her leave, and I can pretend none of this ever happened.”

I swallowed the bitterness in my throat and tried to speak to him rationally.

Joseph’s handsome brows drew tightly together as he stared into my eyes.

“Natalie,” he began, “if it weren’t for me, you’d still be selling tacos on the street.”

…

Just as he wished, I returned to my old trade and set up a taco stand outside his company's building.

Over the years, I had frequently attended business banquets with Joseph, so the reporters were well acquainted with me.

The moment I pushed my taco stand to the entrance of Adams Inc., a bold reporter aimed his camera straight at me.

“Mrs. Adams, why are you running a stand outside the company? Is Adams Inc. planning to enter the food industry?”

I prepared a taco and handed it to him.

“Freshly made. My treat.

“My husband has recently been keeping a little mistress,” I added.

“I’m worried he doesn’t give her enough pocket money.

“You know how young girls are—never satisfied, always wanting more.”

I spoke with restraint, but when I replayed the interview footage later, I hated myself for not being vicious enough.

Any sense of conscience had long since been ground into dust by Monica’s daily displays of feigned concern.

The second time I set up my stand, Joseph sent the city enforcement officers to confiscate it.

That evening, Joseph came home unusually early.

“Is this amusing to you?” he demanded.

“Very,” I replied.

“Aren’t I just helping you make it official? The whole company must be buzzing by now.”

He sighed softly.

“If you hadn’t made such a scene, I might never have even cared about Monica,” he said wearily.

I let out a laugh, but my eyes betrayed me as the tears flowed.

Was he blaming me?

What right did he have to do that?

He was the one who betrayed our marriage, yet he stood on moral high ground, accusing me of madness, claiming that I had pushed him into Monica’s arms.

Was my emotional breakdown what made him realize he needed to defend true love?

“Joseph, I can be even crazier.”

I clenched my teeth as I spoke, forcing out every word.

Only when I tasted blood did I realize it had already seeped from the corner of my mouth.

That very night, Joseph moved into Monica’s apartment.

I fixed my gaze on Joseph, who was on the stage.

I had said it before, I would be even crazier.

And I would give him a grand gift.

Bodyguards stood beside Joseph, keeping the situation under control.

There were many reporters in attendance that day, and Adams Inc.’s PR department was busy steering public opinion.

Joseph pulled me into the inner hall.

“Natalie…” he started as he rubbed his brow helplessly.

After a few breaths, he regained his usual calm composure.

“You should know how important this anniversary banquet is.”

Of course, I knew otherwise, I would not have come.

Besides his business partners, there was another guest present, Joseph’s most important patron, and the key figure he needed to enter the manufacturing industry: Frank Highguard.

I had met Frank when he came to my taco stand.

Frank was advanced in years and had a fondness for tacos.

The first time I encountered him, he had quarreled with the younger members of his family and stormed out of the house.

When I spoke to him, I thought he was a homeless scavenger and kindly treated him to a meal from my stand.

From then on, rain or shine, he came every day to get a free meal.

He ate at my stand for more than half a year and still demanded extra meat every time.

The day Joseph appeared, I was preparing an order.

The rising steam veiled his handsome brows and eyes, yet it made him look like some ethereal creature.

He had come to see Frank with a project in hand, carrying the confidence and arrogance of youth, firmly believing that his proposal would impress.

Instead, Joseph was turned away.

But he was a patient man.

He came again and again, from the height of summer to the depths of winter.

Unable to bear it any longer, I served a couple of tacos in front of Frank.

“Add your own guacamole.”

Joseph took the opportunity to sit down.

He was a clever man.

He spoke to Frank only about tacos, from fillings to the various sauces.

The conversation drifted from savory food to the brand agency and distribution rights.

If a few stars had not appeared in the sky by then, Joseph might have talked all the way to the next morning.

After that, Joseph often came with Frank to eat for free.

Later, Frank stopped coming as frequently.

He said the younger members of his family had finally learned discipline, and he wanted to teach them personally, step by step.

Joseph, however, began coming more often.

From two or three times a month to every day of the week.

The final time, I prepared a full plate of tacos and sat across from him.

“These are the last tacos I’ll ever make,” I said.

“Enjoy them while you can.”

Under Joseph’s stunned gaze, I took out my admission letter from Havana University.

“I got in. I’m going to continue my studies.

“I won’t be running the stand anymore.”

Joseph paused.

He said nothing, only lowered his head and ate his tacos.

And so, without ever saying it aloud, we began a four-year-long relationship.

From a taco stand to a university campus.

We met as worldly adults, yet our love began in the innocence of my student days.

After graduation, I stayed home and wrote novels, living the life I had once dreamed of, earning money without ever leaving the house.

More than once, Joseph asked me, “Other people go to graduate school to get better jobs.

“If you’re writing novels, does it really matter whether you pursue further studies or not?”

I answered solemnly, “I’m not going to graduate school to find a job. I simply love literature.”

Joseph called me naïve, said it was immature to spend four years studying literature, yet he still remodeled a room in our home into the perfect space for me to stay inside and write.

Even though my fictional worlds were filled with scumbags for men, I never imagined that Joseph would become one of them.

I thought of a recent novel I had written about winning back a wife.

One top comment read: [The heroine meets one male lead; the hero meets ten.]

A smile tugged at the corners of my mouth.

Turns out it was true.

Joseph was the only one for me.

“Say something, Natalie.”

Joseph suppressed his anger.

It was ridiculous.

I was the one who should have been furious.

Just like the day I exposed his affair with Monica, after a brief moment of shock, anger had replaced his guilt.

He flew into a rage, accused me of betraying his trust, and of invading his privacy.

It was as if he were the one who had been cheated on, and I had become the woman who stayed out all night, who crawled into bed with younger men.

“What do you want me to say?” I asked as I looked up at him.

“Should I grow numb, hand you a divorce agreement, take nothing, and wait for the day you realize Monica is nothing special, then remember me during some night when you’re drunk, clutching your stomach in pain, thinking about the hangover brew I used to make for you?”

“I don’t drink,” he said calmly.

“Of course you don’t drink,” I replied.

“And I never got up in the middle of the night to make you a hangover drink.”

I forced a smile, one so strained that tears blurred my vision.

“How ridiculous.

“You don’t drink?

“I can’t even find a damn excuse for you. No drunken lapse, no moment of weakness!”

I screamed as I tore the bow tie from Joseph’s chest.

The color was deliberately chosen to match Monica’s gown.

“Joseph, I’m not the heroine from those wife-chasing novels I write. I won’t swallow my pride in silence, and I won’t kneel to pick up the used condoms you and Monica tossed aside.

“I want to ruin her. I want her parents—and everyone in their entire village—to know that this ungrateful thing slept with her sponsor’s husband!”

Only then did he snap back to his senses.

He gripped my shoulders hard.

“What did you do?”

Looking into his panicked eyes, I smiled like a madwoman.

“What did I do?

“I wanted her dead.”

Then, from outside the door, came the sharp sound of a slap, followed by a woman’s shrill curses, each word punctuated by a venomous “worthless slut.”

Joseph yanked the door open.

Monica was being beaten by her mother, her hair clutched tightly in her mother’s fist.

…

The banquet’s security guards stood frozen, stunned into silence.

By then, Monica’s mother, Marcy Martin, had straddled her, delivering slap after slap, each one landing with brutal force.

Monica’s cheeks were streaked with bright red marks, blood stained the corner of her mouth, and her carefully coordinated dress had been torn to shreds.

“What are you standing there for? Pull her away, now!” Joseph shouted, jolting the surrounding security guards into action.

Marcy was quickly restrained.

When our eyes briefly met, I gave her a slight nod.

That was enough.

Hit too lightly, and it wouldn’t satisfy my sense of justice.

Hit too hard, and it would escalate to the authorities, which I wanted to avoid.

Monica’s reputation was utterly ruined.

The title of “mistress” would forever cling to her name.

Watching her humiliated even a little eased the anger in my heart.

“You’ve gone too far, Natalie.”

Joseph wrapped Monica in his coat, intending to carry her away immediately.

“Joseph, if you walk out holding her, how are you going to explain to Frank?”

He froze, then turned to look at me.

“Isn’t this exactly what you wanted?”

He left without another word.

Is that what I wanted to see?

To use a farce to prove that his love for Monica was genuine, while I remained the scorned woman in our marriage?

As Joseph departed, the onlookers dispersed in a murmur.

Marcy nervously wrung her hands and approached me with a fawning smile.

“About what you promised before…”

I waved weakly.

“Don’t worry. I’ll handle your son’s marital home and make the other arrangements for you.”

A smile spread across her face just as it had the first time I saw Monica.

Monica had always been bright, but her family was poor.

In her senior year of high school, her parents were planning to marry her off to some guy in the same village.

Through a recommendation from the village leader, I sponsored Monica’s studies.

I paid for her education, bought her daily necessities, listened to her talk about her family’s favoritism, and heard her dreams and hopes for the future.

She got into a prestigious university, and I accompanied her to register, buying her proper clothing and continuing to support her through college.

After graduation, I recommended her for a position in Adams Inc.’s technical department.

Yet within a month, she had transformed from a high-achieving technical employee

into my husband’s personal secretary, the kind of young, inexperienced assistant who constantly made clumsy mistakes.

I still remember, after her affair with Joseph was exposed, she came to my house, laughing and calling me “old lady”, demanding I help her change her shoes.

Only later did she cover her mouth in shock.

“I’m so sorry, Natalie… It’s been so long. I mistook you for the housekeeper.

“You should dress up properly, too. Even if you don’t go out, you’re not getting any younger. It’s not the time to go without makeup.”

She flaunted her youth as if it were a trophy.

Yet youth was the one thing she had no right to boast about, especially for someone who had no family support, someone who had been taken out of the countryside with the help of others.

She had forgotten where she came from, forgotten who had lifted her out of poverty.

So I would be the good person to remind her and, conveniently, send her back where she belonged.

It was only reasonable, wasn’t it?