Chapter 3

I immediately called her number.

No answer.

I tried again.

This time, her phone was off.

I called my parents, who live in the suburbs. I told them I had an unexpected business trip and that Millie was working overtime. I asked them to come watch the kids.

They could drive over in under an hour.

I'd planned to wait for them before leaving.

But I couldn't stand it anymore.

After instructing the kids to wait for my parents, I rushed out, hailing a taxi straight to the International Hotel.

Stepping into the grand lobby, it hit me—this was a seven-star hotel.

A foreign-owned chain, no less.

I approached the front desk, pulling out our marriage certificate. "Excuse me," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "My wife was staying here. I've lost contact with her. Can you please tell me which room she's in?"

The young woman at the reception didn't even glance at the document. "Sir," she said dismissively, "even if you are married, that doesn't grant you the right to access her private information. If there's an issue, we have dedicated procedures. Please leave, or contact your wife directly."

Repeatedly rebuffed, a thought suddenly struck me—something I'd seen online. Sometimes you have to break the rules, you just have to be ready to face the consequences.

In a flash, I ducked around the corner and bolted into the staff area behind the front desk. My eyes landed on the computer screen displaying the [Hotel Information Management System, OPERA].

My fingers flew across the keyboard, entering her ID number.I'd barely gotten halfway through when three security guards rushed over, slamming me hard against the desk.

This wasn't how it was supposed to go. I thought I just had to face the consequences?

One of the guards punched me in the face.

Lights exploded behind my eyes. The blow ignited a raw, blinding rage.

I shoved back with all my strength, my foot connecting hard with his stomach, followed by a sharp uppercut to his jaw.

The next thing I knew, I was in the back of a police car, its siren wailing, on my way to the station.

The officer took my statement, recording the entire incident. "Have a family member come pick you up," he said, sliding the paperwork for me to sign.

"My parents are watching the kids. They can't make it."

The officer shot me a stern look. "You're married, aren't you? Call your wife."

I turned my head away. "I'm not calling her. You call her if you want."

Her phone was out anyway.

Two hours later, Millie rushed in, looking flustered.

The police station was only a five-minute drive from the hotel. Maybe a half-hour walk.

The thought of her tangled up with someone else in that hotel room before getting the call made my skin crawl.

She walked in with a stormy expression. I met her gaze with a scowl of my own.

"What was wrong with you?" Millie exploded the second she saw me. "Getting into a fight? Have you lost your mind? A criminal record will ruin everything! Our kids won't be able to get government jobs! Are you insane?"

She wouldn't have gotten a rise out of me if she hadn't brought up the kids. But the moment she did, I was about to spill everything.

If our daughter couldn't pursue a government career in the future because of my recklessness... the guilt would be unbearable.

If she ever missed out on a civil service job because of me, she'd have every right to blame her screw-up of a dad.

At the police station, I apologized to the security guard I had hit. The medical examination showed no serious injuries, and we eventually settled the matter privately for 6,000 dollars.

Sitting in the passenger seat, Millie drove with a face like thunder.

Several times, I almost blurted out the question about the paternity test.

But we were on that elevated highway, several stories high. If I upset her and she, in a moment of rage, decided to drive us over the edge... what would happen to our daughter then?

A bitter frustration churned in my chest. I glanced sideways, studying my wife.

She was dressed particularly well today, a sweater, a short skirt, and those black Balenciaga stockings with the distinctive logos

A glimpse of her leg in my peripheral vision.

Suddenly, something clicked. Something was wrong.

"Your Balenciagas are ripped," I stated, my voice flat and emotionless.

Millie started, then retorted sharply, "This was your fault! I rushed around at the police station like a madman. They got caught and tore!"

I let out a bitter, silent laugh and shook my head, not even bothering to challenge her lie.