Chapter 1

My husband left his flash drive at home.

When I plugged it into my laptop, I found it packed with photos of him and another woman.

And every single picture was taken right here in our apartment.

On our living room couch, on the kitchen island, and across our bed.

Every timestamp lined up with my work hours.

Dozens of photos, not a single slip-up. The timing was calculated down to the minute. This wasn't a sudden mistake; it was an established routine.

The moment the shock faded, I pulled out my phone and called in sick.

Seven o’clock in the evening was when my night shift was supposed to start.

Instead, I hid inside the bedroom closet, leaving the door cracked open just a sliver.

At seven-thirty, I heard keys rattling in the front lock.

My husband walked through the door, and he wasn't alone.

My husband’s voice drifted through the closet slats, light and nonchalant.

"Relax, babe. She's working the night shift. She’s already clocked in by now."

"Tonight, the whole place is ours."

The rustling sound of clothes hitting the floor followed, accompanied by a woman’s sultry whine.

"David, how much longer are you going to keep lying to Chloe?"

"My parents called again yesterday pressuring me to get married. They want to know when we’re getting our license."

"I can't stall them anymore. Every time I ask, you say 'soon, soon.' It’s been three years!"

David’s voice turned coaxing, punctuated by the soft sounds of kisses.

"Baby, don't be mad."

"You know I already brought up divorce with Chloe."

"She’s just completely stubborn. She refuses to sign anything."

"She's clinging to me and refusing to leave. What can I do?"

"I can't just physically drag her onto the street. If I do that, the court will see me as the hostile party, and I’ll end up losing half the assets."

Hearing that, my fingers clenched tightly against my knees.

My nails dug deep into my palms, but I couldn't feel a thing.

David claimed he had asked for a divorce?

What a sick joke.

Just last week, we had an argument over some trivial chore, and in a fit of frustration, I was the one who brought up getting a divorce.

And how had David reacted?

He fell to his knees, clutched my legs, and sobbed uncontrollably.

He swore he couldn't live without me.

He even handed over his debit card and swore on his life that he would be the perfect husband.

It turned out that all his devoted tears were just a rehearsed act.

It was all to appease me, keeping me compliant so I’d believe he truly cherished our marriage.

Outside the closet, their sickening conversation continued.

"David, is she brain-dead? Can’t she tell you can't stand her?" the woman sneered, dripping with superiority.

David scoffed.

"Her? She’s just a boring, rigid workaholic."

"Her entire existence revolves around working and cooking."

"Back then, I had to bust my ass saving every penny just to afford the down payment and wedding costs for this place."

"Thinking about it now, marrying her was the worst curse of my life."

The woman let out a delighted giggle.

"Alright, stop talking about that buzzkill."

"Come here."

The nightstand bumped against the wall with a hollow thud.

Then David’s voice came again, hurried and cautious.

"Wait, let me set an alarm first."

"She gets off her shift at six tomorrow morning."

"We need to be up before five-thirty to clean up every trace."

"We haven't had a single slip-up in three years because I stick to the schedule. Flawless execution."

"As long as we keep to the timetable, she’ll never find out in this lifetime."

The woman’s voice was languid and satisfied.

"You really think of everything, David."

"By the way, my parents want to meet you for lunch tomorrow."

"They're in town. They said they want to finalize our wedding plans."

"What time works for you?"

David paused for a beat.

"Tomorrow at noon."

"I’ll make up an excuse and take the morning off work."

"Where are we meeting?"

"At that French bistro downtown, Champs-Élysées."

"Got it. I'll be there on time."

I buried my face in my knees, my whole body shaking uncontrollably.

Silent tears ran down my cheeks, but I clamped my teeth into my lower lip, refusing to let out a single breath.

Three years of marriage. From start to finish, it had been nothing but a humiliating farce.

I seared the location into my memory.

Champs-Élysées Bistro, twelve noon.