Chapter 1

On Valentine's Day, I got a huge delivery order to a hotel.

Two boxes of condoms. Plus a lingerie set. Delivery fee: a hundred bucks.

I rushed over through the freezing wind, only to hear my wife's voice through the door, talking to another man.

"Six condoms. You're not leaving until we use them all," she said, teasing.

They were so eager they hadn't even closed the door all the way.

I didn't go in. I didn't say a word. I just sat in the hallway and smoked an entire pack.

While I listened to my wife moan, desperate, breathless, urgent, I took the designer bag she'd been begging for and burned it to ash.

Late that night when I got home, Isabelle Snow was wearing a sheer nightgown, posing in front of the mirror.

When she saw me come in, she quickly threw on a robe. Panic flickered in her eyes.

"You're home so late. It's Valentine's Day. Where's my gift?"

Seeing my empty hands, her voice turned sharp.

Once, I would've caught every flicker of her mood and done everything to make her happy.

But tonight, my heart was still as dead water.

I returned to the bedroom exhausted and collapsed on the bed without a word.

When I turned over, I accidentally touched a small pink tube under the pillow.

A line of small print on the packaging.

"Restores intimate areas to youthful firmness and moisture, giving him the ride of his life."

I stared at the ointment in a daze. Isabelle rushed into the bedroom and snatched it away, clutching it in her hand.

"I've had some minor gynecological issues lately. It's nothing."

She guiltily tossed the ointment in the trash, then made a show of taking out the garbage. When she came back in, she was obviously relieved.

I didn't expose her. I pulled her onto the bed.

"What are you doing?"

Isabelle resisted.

"It's been over three months. It's Valentine's Day-let's do it once." I numbly lifted her skirt.

Rather than still having desire for her, I was holding in my rage, wanting release.

Her expression showed clear rejection as she frowned and pushed me away. "You're covered in sweat. Your clothes are filthy."

I ignored her and reached to touch her.

Slap.

Isabelle's hand landed on my face-not too hard, not too soft. We both froze.

She looked a bit panicked, but still turned her face away.

"Is this the only thing in your brain?"

I stared at the red marks on her thighs that hadn't yet faded, my mouth curling in self-mockery.

How ridiculous.

A place where another man could freely roam, yet I, her legal husband, couldn't even touch.

As we remained in this standoff, Isabelle's phone rang. Someone was FaceTiming her.

She immediately flipped the phone face-down in her palm, pulled her nightgown closed, and hurried away, locking herself in the study.

I didn't need to guess who would make her hide in the study to take a call at midnight.

I went into the bathroom and listlessly washed myself.

Isabelle and I were college classmates, once the template for a perfect campus romance.

My billionaire father, worried I'd become a spoiled brat, pretended to be poor from the time I was young, constantly reinforcing the idea that our family had no money.

It wasn't until the day before college graduation that I learned our family actually had billions in assets.

I immediately proposed giving Isabelle a proper wedding, but my parents refused to approve our marriage.

Between billions in family assets and Isabelle, I chose her without hesitation and cut ties with my family.

In her eyes, I was a clueless kid fresh out of college, hitting walls everywhere, while she quickly found a job at an e-commerce company thanks to her good looks.

When the company went under and jobs were hard to find, I delivered food in hundred-degree heat every day, never complaining to her about the hardship.

I thought true love could last a lifetime. I never imagined how quickly hearts could change.

Everything changed when her company got a new boss. A rich heir.

Tristan Harrington was handsome, charming, the trendy pretty-boy type. And Isabelle was completely gone for him.

She used to be casual about her appearance. Now she was learning makeup, obsessing over skincare and weight loss. Her closet filled up with tight, sexy short skirts and stockings. She loved posting provocative photos of herself in them on Instagram.

I'd asked about it once, bothered.

"Is it really appropriate to post those kinds of photos on Ins?"

She exploded on the spot. "What do you know? It's competitive out there. If you want to make money, you have to put yourself out there!"

Back then, I thought she was just stressed from work. I didn't take it seriously.

If I hadn't been desperately taking orders to buy her that dream bag for Valentine's Day, I'd still believe in this relationship completely.

I stood in the cold water for a full hour until my whole body was numb, then sluggishly returned to the bedroom.

The double bed had only one pillow left. On my phone was a message she'd sent half an hour ago.

"I have a meeting tomorrow. Your snoring will disturb me. I'm sleeping in the guest room."

I lit a cigarette and stood outside the guest room door for a long time.

Her phone call had lasted over an hour and showed no signs of ending.

Coquettish laughter and the kind of dirty talk only lovers say drifted faintly through the door.

Even through the door, I could feel how happy Isabelle was right now.

The scales of affection had already tipped. Any further pretense was just self-deception.