Chapter 1
I had been married to my husband for five years, and our anniversary fell on Christmas Eve.
That night, I had a full spread waiting for him at home. I had cooked everything myself and set the table the way he liked it.
While I was waiting for him, he was on Instagram posting a screenshot of a bank transfer to his first love. The amount was two million dollars.
The caption read: [Happy New Year, my one and only.]
I called him as soon as I saw it and asked what he thought he was doing. He sounded annoyed the moment he picked up.
"Can you not do this right now?" he said. "She's in the hospital. She needs someone with her."
I looked at the food on the table as it slowly lost what little warmth it had left, and I laughed.
He thought he was the one playing the game.
He had forgotten something. I was the one who made the rules.
And at that point, the game had already ended.
*****
The second hand on the wall clock kept ticking, steady and precise, each sound landing harder than it should have.
By eight o'clock, the food had gone completely cold.
The crust on the baked cod had softened and lost its crunch. The popcorn chicken looked greasy and unappetizing.
The club sandwiches I had made from scratch were damp, the bread sagging under the filling.
I had started cooking at three that afternoon and had spent five straight hours in the kitchen.
It had been Christmas Eve, and it had also been my fifth wedding anniversary with Henry Carter.
My phone lit up, and for a brief second, I thought it might be him. It was not a call or even a text.
It was an Instagram notification.
I had opened it before I could stop myself.
Henry had posted a minute earlier.
It was a screenshot of a bank transfer, and when I saw the amount listed there, my eyes stung. It was two million dollars.
The recipient's name was Lily.
The caption was short and almost casual, which somehow made it worse.
The caption read: [Happy New Year, my one and only.]
Several mutual friends had already liked the post and left comments.
[Henry, that's incredible. Lily is so lucky.]
[Two million dollars? That's unreal.]
[Is this what true love looks like?]
True love?
I had actually laughed when I read those words.
My phone started vibrating again. My mom was calling on video.
I took a slow breath, adjusted my expression, and answered.
"Eva, Merry Christmas Eve! Where's Henry? Wasn't he home with you?" she asked, her voice bright and cheerful.
"He had something urgent come up at work," I said with a tight smile. "It was last minute. He was working late."
My mom clicked her tongue. "On Christmas Eve? That boy works too hard. You should tell him to slow down. Don't let him exhaust himself."
She kept talking for a while, offering advice I did not need. I responded when appropriate, but my eyes never left Henry's post on the screen.
I knew exactly who Lily was.
Lily Moore had been his college girlfriend, the one he had once loved as if nothing else mattered.
I had heard she left him back then for a wealthy heir.
So what had changed? Had that man walked away, and now she had come back looking for my husband?
After I hung up with my mom, I could not hold it in any longer and called Henry.
The phone rang for a long time before he finally answered.
"Yeah?" he said, and there was a clear edge of impatience in his voice, as if I had interrupted something important.
In the background, I could hear the steady beeping of medical equipment and the faint sound of a woman coughing.
"Henry, where were you?" I asked, and I could hear the tremor in my own voice.
"At the hospital," he said.
"Who were you there with?" I asked. "Was it Lily?"
He went quiet for a moment, and when he spoke again, his patience was thinner than before. "Eva, can you try to be reasonable? Lily's sick. She's alone in the hospital. She's having a hard time."
"A hard time?" I said. "She's having a hard time, and I'm not? Henry, do you even remember what today is?"
"It's an anniversary," he snapped. "How is that more important than someone's health? She just had surgery. She needs someone there with her. Stop making this about you."
"Surgery?" I pressed. "What kind of surgery?"
Henry said, "Appendicitis."
Appendicitis?
I let out a short laugh before I could stop myself.
An appendectomy required him to walk out on his wife of five years on Christmas Eve and stay by another woman's side all night?
It also required a transfer of two million dollars, signed off with "my one and only"?
"Henry," I said, forcing my voice to stay steady, "what exactly did you mean by that Instagram post?"
"What do you mean, what did I mean?" he shot back. "You saw it, didn't you? Then stop asking. I don't have time to explain this to you."
From the other end of the line, I heard a woman's voice, soft but perfectly audible. "Henry, who is it? Is it Eva? You should explain it to her. I don't want her to misunderstand us."
Her voice was fragile in a calculated way, every word gentle and careful, as if she were the reasonable one.
"Did you hear that?" I said quietly. "She wants you to explain."
That was when Henry finally lost whatever patience he had left.
He snapped, "Eva, I'm warning you. Do not go after Lily. She's not like you. She can't handle this kind of stress."
There was a pause, and then he added, his voice hard and sharp, "If you can't live with this, then leave."
The line went dead.