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.
“Jean, I was wrong last night,” he said softly. “I’ll be more careful next time.”
I didn’t answer. Just muttered, “I’m a little tired,” and went straight upstairs to sleep.
The next morning, I asked our housekeeper to take Matthew to school. I didn’t have the strength. It wasn’t until the afternoon that I finally felt a little better.
By evening, I went out to pick him up myself—just wanting to hold my son.
But the kindergarten teacher looked surprised.
“An aunt already picked him up earlier,” she said. “Mr. Sharp arranged it.”
Panic slammed into me. I immediately called Geoffrey.
No answer.
I called again. And again.
Still nothing.
My hands were shaking. Cold sweat beaded my forehead. Just as I was about to call the police, he finally picked up.
Loud music blasted through the receiver—a birthday song, clinking glasses, laughter.
“It’s my friend’s birthday,” he said over the noise. “Come join us. Bring Matthew, let him have fun.”
I couldn’t suppress it anymore. My voice rose.
“You didn’t even tell me! Do you know how scared I—”
Then I heard Matthew’s voice in the background.
“Mom, it’s Aunt Caroline—”
Click.
The line went dead.
The busy tone buzzed in my ear.
I stood frozen on the street as the wind lashed against my skin. I’d never felt so cold.
---
At home, I waited on the couch until deep into the night.
Finally, I heard laughter at the door.
Matthew ran in, beaming, a cake box in hand.
“Mom! Aunt Caroline’s cake was yummy! She taught me how to make cream flowers!”
The sweet scent of strawberry jam mixed with an unfamiliar floral perfume. My stomach turned. I ran into the bathroom, retching uncontrollably.
“What’s wrong?”
Geoffrey followed me in, placing a hand on my back. “Are you sick?”
He handed me a towel, then paused.
“…Have you had your period lately?”
I looked up sharply, meeting his eyes.
His face lit up.
“Could we… have a second baby?”
There was a flicker of hope in his voice. The kind that used to belong to us. It hurts more than anything.
He had always wanted a daughter.
That night, I couldn’t sleep.
The next morning, I took a pregnancy test.
Two red lines.
Positive.
When he saw it, he swept me into his arms and spun me around with joy.
He kissed my forehead and whispered, “She’s coming. Our little girl.”
He promised he’d cleared his schedule. He said he’d take me to the hospital himself.
But when the day finally came, I stood alone in the hospital corridor, holding my early pregnancy report, calling him over and over.
He never answered.
Then a text popped up:
"Caroline got into a car accident. I can't leave right now."
I opened Instagram. The latest post from Caroline showed her pouting with a bandaged hand.
“Just a little scratch~ Someone’s being too dramatic 🥺”
The sterile smell of disinfectant filled my lungs. I felt like choking.
My fingers trembled around the report.
I walked to the nurse’s desk and said, quietly but firmly:
“Please help me schedule an abortion.”
---
As the anesthesia spread through my body, I closed my eyes.
But I couldn’t stop the tears.
---
When the procedure was over, I leaned against the wall, weak but determined to walk on my own.
That’s when I saw him.
At the end of the corridor, Geoffrey was crouched down in front of Caroline, his back turned to me. Her hand rested lightly on his shoulder.
That posture.
Seven years ago, when I was rushed into surgery for appendicitis, he crouched just like that beside my hospital bed—and carried me on his back to the car.
I remembered my senior year. I had a terrible cold. It was freezing, but he stood outside my dorm for three hours just to bring me a box of cold medicine.
