To celebrate our wedding anniversary, my husband—the CEO—brought our son along as always. During dinner, he patiently helped us pick out the green onions we didn’t like, just like he always did.

After the meal, he bathed our son and tucked him into bed. Then, he returned to our room.

He was on top of me when his phone rang.

In the past, he would have smirked, brushed it off, and whispered playfully, “Be quiet, or someone might hear.” But this time, he glanced at the caller ID, paused, then rolled off me and got out of bed.

Curious, I followed him to the balcony, hoping to hug him from behind—only to stop dead in my tracks.

A smile tugged at his lips—soft, indulgent—as he answered the call.

——

Through the hush of the night, a woman’s voice floated from the phone. Flirtatious. Familiar.

“You must need it urgently…”

My heart twisted.

The smile vanished. His expression stiffened as he ended the call. When he turned and saw me, he spoke flatly. “I need to go downstairs.”

He didn’t wait for a reply.

I sat on the bed in silence, lightly dressed, waiting. But he didn’t return.

Eventually, I couldn’t take it anymore. I dressed and went downstairs.

At the base of the stairs, I saw them.

A young woman stood before Geoffrey. Pure white dress, innocent eyes—glowing under the streetlight.

She turned to me with a sweet smile. “Hi, Mrs. Sharp. I’m Caroline McAllister, the new intern at Mr. Sharp’s company.”

She raised a paper bag. “Mr. Sharp, your razor,” she said with a sugary tone. “I left it during our last business trip. You told me your wife gave it to you, so I knew it must be important.”

I scoffed. “It’s better to throw away personal things once they’ve been touched by someone else.”

“Jean,” he snapped, frowning. “Don’t talk like that.”

Caroline just pouted playfully, unaffected.

Then she handed me a cartoon-patterned gift bag. “This is the tablet I helped Mr. Sharp choose for Matthew. Happy early birthday to him.”

My hands clenched, nails digging into my palm. I didn’t move.

“Take it,” Geoffrey ordered.

I reached out stiffly. “Thank you.”

Without another word, I turned and went back upstairs.

A while later, he followed. After he thought I was asleep, he slid closer, arms wrapping around my waist.

“Still awake?” he murmured.

I stayed silent.

He chuckled, brushing my shoulder. “She’s just an intern. Don’t overthink it. Why get jealous?”

I pushed his hand away. “I’m tired.”

His voice turned cold. “Jean, don’t lose your sense of proportion.”

Then he turned his back to me and fell asleep—or pretended to.

Later, I heard him step onto the balcony to call someone.

From the crack in the door, a soft sentence slipped in: “I’m glad you made it home.”

When he came back in and saw me watching, he said calmly, “It’s dangerous for a girl to go home alone at night.”

“She usually seems carefree,” I replied.

He didn’t answer. Maybe he didn’t realize the way he spoke—gentle, protective.

Before I could say more, thunder cracked outside.

Matthew’s cries echoed from the next room.

We both rushed to him, but he got there first.

When I entered, I saw him about to hand our son the tablet Caroline had given.

“Don’t let him watch that,” I said quickly. “It’ll hurt his eyes.”

I reached for it.

He sidestepped me. “Just ten minutes. He wants to watch. Don’t ruin his mood.”

In the dark, the impatience in his eyes burned hotter than the lightning flashing outside.

After coaxing our son to sleep, he stood and left the room first. “I have a meeting early tomorrow. You stay with him.”

Then came the usual cold farewell. “Don’t bother preparing breakfast. Just focus on taking care of your son.”

Your son.

I wasn’t always a full-time wife.

Back then, I was like Geoffrey Sharp—career-driven, ambitious. We fell in love in college, married after our internships, and had a child soon after. On the surface, our life looked seamless. But I was the one who gave in, one compromise at a time.

I gave up my job to care for our child, to support his career quietly from behind the scenes. My sacrifice bought him peace of mind, freedom, and a fast-track promotion.

Now, he’s the head of the branch.

And like clockwork, he left early that morning—no goodbye, not even a glance.

Still, I made dinner for him. Like always.

Around 8 PM, my phone buzzed.

Geoffrey: Business trip. Pack a bag. I’ll pick you up in 30 minutes.

The tone was curt, transactional—like issuing an order to a subordinate.

I didn’t flinch. I was used to it.

After years of being his shadow, I could pack in ten minutes flat. When I came down with my suitcase, I saw her—Caroline—reaching across the passenger seat to adjust the radio.

She smiled sweetly when she spotted me. “Jean.”

Then she added, with a feigned helplessness, “I was clueless when I started my internship. Mr. Sharp said this trip would help me learn and gain experience.”

I clenched the suitcase handle tighter, veins rising beneath my skin.

“An intern on a business trip with the president?”

Geoffrey didn’t even look at me. “Teach her how to write a proper report on the way,” he said, tapping the steering wheel with relaxed rhythm.

So carefree. So distant.

I stared at the man beside me, remembering how once, after a night of heavy drinking with clients, he came home vomiting blood—but still got up at 3 AM to cook porridge for me.

I remembered how, after his first promotion, he booked the entire revolving restaurant, playing our wedding photos on the projector to cheer me up.

Back then, I was his entire world.

Now, I was a role. A title. A routine.

Soon, he started bringing women around under the guise of “work.” We had screaming fights, slammed doors—but I stayed. For the child. For the image. For peace.

Over time, I learned to turn a blind eye.

But this time was different.

This time, he cared. The way he looked at Caroline—it was the way he once looked at me.

On the second day of the trip, Caroline suddenly added me on Instagram.

Caroline: Jean, Mr. Sharp wears XL underwear, right?

Attached was a photo of a messy hotel bathroom—men’s shirts scattered across the tub.

Caroline: He drank too much and vomited. Got all my clothes wet. I need to buy him some new ones.

Innocent tone. Casual devastation.

The following days, she flooded her IG feed with photos of Geoffrey.

In a nine-photo grid titled “Watching the Sunrise with Mr. Sharp,” she wore his jacket, smiling like she’d won the world.

In a short video labeled “Celebration Banquet,” his hands paused to place peeled shrimp gently into her bowl.

Each post chipped away at me.

And yet—I kept watching.

A few days later, he called to say he’d be arriving home and asked me to pick him up at the airport.

It was raining hard. The flight was delayed. I waited, umbrella in hand, getting soaked beneath the arrival exit’s flickering lights.

Then I saw them.

Walking side by side.

Caroline, laughing under the shelter of his umbrella, his suit jacket draped over her shoulders.

When Caroline saw me, she was the first to greet me.

“Jean, the driver had to take emergency leave. Thank you for picking us up.”

I glanced at the coat draped over her shoulders—my husband’s coat—and said flatly,

“If you think saying that makes you seem modest, I won’t argue.”

Her smile faltered.

Geoffrey slid into the back seat first.

“Take her home first. The address is 701, Building 3, Sunflower Garden.”

That number jolted something in my memory. I had found a movie ticket stub tucked in the pocket of his suit just last week—the same cinema, the same night.

Caroline climbed in after him, her voice soft. “Sorry for the trouble, Jean.”

I looked at them through the rearview mirror.

They weren’t touching—but they didn’t need to be. The silence between them felt too familiar. Too close.

By the time we got home, it was already late. I went straight to the shower, hoping the hot water would rinse off the chill I couldn’t shake.

While I was getting dressed, the bathroom door creaked open.

Geoffrey stepped in through the steam and wrapped his arms around me from behind.

“Did you miss me?”

A diamond pendant hung between my collarbones—one I hadn’t noticed before.

“I saw it at an auction,” he murmured. “Thought it’d look perfect on you. Do you like it?”

His lips brushed my neck.

But I could smell her on him. Sweet. Lingering.

I pushed him away, heart pounding.

Then, in the mirror, I noticed the pendant’s shape—and it hit me.

I’d seen it before in Caroline’s IG post.

“Although it’s expensive, I don’t like it. Please refuse~”

The caption had been playful. Dismissive.

So, this was what I got now—hand-me-downs from his intern.

I grabbed my phone, opened her IG, and held it up to him.

“Explain this to me. Right now.”

He paused, then gave a short, cold laugh.

“She’s just a kid playing around. Why are you taking it so seriously? She’s an intern.”

Even after everything, he was still defending her.

Anger surged in me. I shoved him away again.

His expression turned hard. “Still acting like a victim? Jean, I thought staying at home for years would’ve made you wiser. Turns out you’ve only gotten dumber.”

Then he grabbed me, lifted me onto the sink counter, and forced himself between my legs.

“Do I need to remind you how a wife is supposed to behave?”

That night, there was no tenderness—only rage and punishment.