Chapter 2
At that time, I asked Desmond, "What's keeping you so busy lately?"
He replied, "The company's expanding. There are tons of projects, and I have to go to social events."
Then, when I made some soup and brought it to his office, the receptionist told me Desmond was out.
I called him, but he didn't pick up.
I texted him, but he didn't reply.
On our wedding anniversary, he showed up at 2 AM.
He handed me some custom-made jewelry his secretary had ordered, stuff I already had plenty of, as a gift.
I asked him where he'd been.
He said it was just work stuff, and swore he wouldn't miss our anniversary again.
I believed him again.
Then, in the fifth month, I stumbled upon his second phone for the very first time.
On it was his entire chat history with Cindy.
Desmond had named her "Dearest Cindy" on WhatsApp, and her profile picture was a cartoon girl.
The latest message from Cindy said, [Thanks for spending time with me today. I feel so much better now.]
I scrolled up.
Cindy: [Mr. Barton, I think I'm falling for you. What should I do?]
She even sent tons of adorable emojis.
Desmond: [Don't overthink it. Just do your job.]
Cindy: [Then why are you so nice to me? When I'm sick, you take me to the hospital. When I work late, you stay up with me. When I'm sad, you listen to me cry and comfort me. Are you this nice to everyone?]
This time, Desmond texted back: [No.]
That one word made my whole body tremble as I gripped the phone.
I scrolled through the photo album and saw many photos of the two of them together.
There were pictures of him taking her to the amusement park, eating ice cream cake with her.
And then there were those explicit photos of them naked in bed together, images I could barely stand to look at.
At that time, my parents had just passed away in a car accident.
The shock was too much. I finally snapped.
I smashed the phone right into Desmond's face, then rushed into the kitchen and grabbed a knife.
With one swing, the 55-inch curved TV screen cracked like a spiderweb.
Next came the coffee table, the vase, and the floor lamp.
Then I went for our wedding photo on the wall.
I slashed it to shreds, leaving nothing but torn fragments.
Shards of glass sliced into my hand, blood splattering everywhere, but I didn't feel a thing.
Desmond was freaking out, totally panicked.
He was terrified I might hurt myself.
He called out my name from behind me.
"Beth, don't make a scene," Desmond pleaded from behind me.
"You bastard!" I shouted at him, my eyes brimming with tears, but I refused to let them fall. "Is Cindy really that amazing? Is she worth giving up everything we have for her?"
That was the first time Desmond ever brought up divorce.
He dropped his head and stared at me.
His eyes were red as well.
He said: "All Cindy ever wants is to have a real, out-in-the-open wedding with me."
He couldn't say no to her.
Desmond rasped, "Beth, I'm sorry. But I can't do anything about it."
He swallowed hard, speaking with absolute sincerity. "She makes me feel something I've never felt before."
I stared at him, lost and numb.
"So what about me? What am I to you?" I asked.
He didn't say a word.
I laughed. As I laughed, tears rolled down my cheeks.
That night, I stormed into the bedroom and threw every last piece of his clothing out of the closet.
I soaked them in alcohol and snapped my lighter open, the flame flickering in my hand.
"Desmond," I said, "if you really want a divorce, I'll burn this whole house down. Do you believe me?"
He believed me.
That night, he slept in the living room and never mentioned divorce again.
The next day, Cindy didn't show up at work.
Later, I heard Desmond gave her a wad of cash and told her to disappear.
I thought everything was finally behind us.
But I was wrong.
Cindy was gone, but Desmond's heart had left with her.
He started smoking, suffering from insomnia night after night.
Sometimes I'd wake up in the middle of the night and find him sitting out on the balcony, gazing outside, lost in thought.
A few weeks later, I caught a glimpse of their messages again.
This time, Cindy was drunk and sent him a selfie.
She was standing in some unfamiliar room, wearing a slip dress, grinning at the camera.
Underneath, she wrote: [Mr. Barton, I miss you.
[My mom's trying to set me up on a blind date. If you don't show up, I have no clue who she'll pawn me off on tonight.]
Desmond was gone again. He didn't return the whole night.
The next day, when he came back, he was drenched in that sweet, gardenia-scented perfume.
He explained that he couldn't let Cindy be married off to some old guy thirty years older than her.
He couldn't bear it.
Desmond brought up divorce again.
He wanted to fulfill Cindy's wish.
Of all days, it was my birthday.
I almost lost it again, ready to go on a rampage like last time.
As I got up, though, I caught sight of my fresh manicure from that afternoon.
They looked like a cat's eyes, so pretty and sparkly.
So I let it slide.
I didn't cry, didn't throw a tantrum, didn't break anything.
I also didn't say a word.
Desmond was the one freaking out now.
He noticed I looked really pale.
He kept asking if I was okay, if I felt sick, if I needed to go to the hospital.
I said, "I'm fine."
He simply stood there, looking helpless and lost.
He didn't dare to mention divorce again.
After that day, I started to fall ill.
Insomnia hit me first.
Whenever I tried to sleep, Cindy and Desmond's chat history would haunt my mind.
Every time I closed my eyes, Cindy's face would pop up. She'd be in that slip dress, grinning at the camera.
Then I completely lost my appetite.
The sight of food made me nauseous, and I couldn't swallow a thing.
I dropped twelve pounds in one month.
After that, I got depressed.
I didn't want to talk to anyone, didn't want to leave the house, and didn't want to see a single soul.
I simply lay there in bed, staring blankly at the ceiling.