Chapter 1

After my first love passed away from an illness, my life spiraled. I hit rock bottom and broke down multiple times.

Then I met Dr. Ethan Vance, a psychiatrist who looked eighty percent like him.

With gentle care and endless patience, Ethan pulled me out of the dark.

I truly believed we would grow old together.

Until the car crash happened.

His first instinct was to throw his arms around his young, secret lover, shielding her with everything he had.

He didn't even care that the shattered glass ripped a massive, bloody gash right across his face.

In that exact second, I let go.

The face. The love. I didn't want any of it anymore.

"I never got around to telling you," I smirked, looking at the girl. "Your boyfriend is actually my husband."

"Well, my ex-husband now."

And just like that, Ethan was the one who broke.

"Do men honestly care if their wives were virgins before them?"

I was mindlessly scrolling through my feed when this trending post popped up.

Usually, I'd scroll right past.

But a strange gut feeling made me tap on it. I read through the comments one by one.

"Let me put it this way. When I met my wife, I thought I didn't care at all. But three years into marriage, with a little fresh excitement in the picture, I realized how much it actually matters."

"The thought of her doing those things with another guy makes me instinctively sick. Truth hurts, but men and women are just built different. Pure girls are real women. The rest? No better than streetwalkers used by a thousand guys."

My fingers trembled. I clicked into the user’s profile.

The location, the username, and the few familiar landscape photos on his page were unmistakable.

It was him.

"Whatcha looking at? You're so spaced out."

A large, warm hand rested on the top of my head, followed by a tender kiss on the corner of my lips.

The man who wrote those vile words had arrived.

I locked my screen, leaning against Ethan's chest as if nothing happened. "Nothing. Just random scrolling."

To keep him from asking more, I changed the subject. "Babe, our anniversary is next week. How do you want to celebrate?"

Ethan stiffened.

That was his tell. Whenever he felt guilty, he froze.

"Next week... I'm so sorry, sweetie. A client wants me out of town for a conference, so I won't be able to stay."

He rubbed his cheek against mine, overcompensating. "Weren't you eyeing that designer bag? I'll pick it up for you on my way back, okay?"

I stared at him, almost trying to burn a hole through his skull.

Ethan, you're lying.

That's fine. I'm lying too.

Because our anniversary isn't next week at all.

I forced a sweet smile, but tears still pricked the corners of my eyes.

The man who once swore to love me forever was gone.

When I first met Ethan, I was at the absolute lowest point of my life.

My college sweetheart had just died of terminal cancer. As an orphan who grew up desperately craving love and emotional security, losing him was a lethal blow.

I had clung to his lifeless body at the hospital, sobbing so hard that I caught the attention of Ethan, who was coming off his shift in the psychiatric ward next door.

The moment I saw him, I froze.

His facial features—especially his eyes and brows—were an uncanny eighty percent match to my first love. With a surgical mask on, he looked identical from a distance.

Ethan was gentle, caring, and professional. Step by step, he pulled me out of my severe depression.

A year after we became close, he stood before me with a bouquet of roses, his face blushing, and asked me out.

I was touched that he had witnessed my ugliest, most broken moments and still chose to save me.

I fell for his devotion and believed his vows.

The following year, we exchanged rings, promising to stay together through sickness and in health.

I often kissed his brows, but over time, it was out of genuine love for Ethan—not nostalgia for the past.

Yet now, I had just discovered his hidden resentment. And the undeniable truth that he was stepping out on me.

A lump formed in my throat.

He was alive and well, yet he chose to throw me away.

How was I supposed to survive the days ahead?

Still, I chose not to call him out. Not yet.