Chapter 1

On our tenth wedding anniversary, my husband walked in with a sheepish grin, claiming he'd been stuck at work. Little did he know, I'd caught him red-handed celebrating his secret son's birthday—a boy who was his mirror image, down to the last detail.

"Dad, you're late. Mom's upset; you should cheer her up," the boy said, blowing out the candles on his honey spice cake. His eyes shut tight as he made a wish: "I hope Mom and Dad stay together forever."

My husband enveloped the boy and a woman with cascading hair in a warm hug. "We'll always be a family," he assured them.

That moment shattered the illusion of my marriage. For a decade, he'd played the devoted partner—to someone else.

Alone in the dark, I blew out the candles on our anniversary cake and whispered my own wish. "I want him to pay for this betrayal."

The sudden flicker of lights startled me. "Honey, why are you sitting in the dark?" Ford's voice cut through the silence, the faint scent of alcohol clinging to him.

"I thought you were working late. Why do you smell like booze?" I retorted, slicing into our 'Happy Tenth Anniversary' cake. The red strawberry bled a vivid stain into the cream.

He dipped a finger into the cream, tasting it to appease me. "This cake is amazing! Too bad I already ate at the office. We toasted a colleague's big win with a grand dinner, and I had some champagne."

"Oh really? What did you have?" My voice was icy, distant.

"Italian," he replied, wrestling with his tie. He shot me a pleading look, and I stepped in to help. He leaned in for a kiss.

"While some have mommy issues, I rely on you. I don't know what I'd do without you," he murmured.

Since our marriage, I'd devoted myself to being the perfect housewife, tending to Ford's every need, from tying his tie in the morning to loosening it at night, shielding him like a child who couldn't fend for himself.

"If you had Italian, why is there cake on your tie?" I teased, brushing my pinky against it and sniffing.

"This isn't my cake," I observed, tasting the cream with my tongue, my gaze locked on his. "It's a birthday cake for a kid, way too sweet."

"Oh, right, now I remember, my colleague's kid came to the office. It was his birthday, so we had some cake."

His lies flowed effortlessly. Had I not witnessed the scene at the restaurant, I might have believed him.

I gathered his discarded socks, straightened his shoes, and prepared to confront the question gnawing at me.

"We've been married for ten years with no kids. Do you ever regret it?"

Ford hugged me from behind, his chin resting on my shoulder. "Kids don’t matter; you’ve given me everything. Marrying you was my greatest fortune."

"Don’t overthink. Being a DINK couple is perfect—just the two of us, right?" He smiled, "Happy anniversary, I love you, Val."

From the start, he'd loved to nuzzle into my shoulder and play coy. Even after marriage, he treated me like we were still on our honeymoon.

In return, I'd always been unconditionally accommodating, willing to sacrifice everything for him. As long as he loved me and remained faithful, being the only father of our lost child.

The shower switched on and off. He poked his head out. "Hey, darling, let's do our dinner tomorrow since I’m home late tonight, okay?"

To the world, he was the perfect husband—successful, stable, and secure.

Once, I thought if he passed away before me, I’d follow him without hesitation. After all, we had no children, just our marriage and each other.

He sang loudly in the shower as usual. In the living room, his phone buzzed with a message.

"Dad, thanks for celebrating my birthday with us tonight! Mom and I really love you!"

I woke at five, as always, applying makeup and preparing breakfast to be ready by half-past six.

When he awoke, breakfast would be at the perfect temperature, and I’d look presentable, no morning mess in sight.

"Darling, your cooking is amazing! Thanks for making breakfast every day for ten years."

While he ate, I organized his briefcase, slipping in a discreet GPS tracker.

With practiced hands, I tied his tie, held the elevator door, and handed him his bag. "Thanks, darling. I'll come home early for dinner tonight."

After he left, I turned on my phone, examining the photos I’d secretly taken last night. Was that child truly my husband’s son?

With trembling fingers, I zoomed in on the images; his small face was undeniably a miniature Ford, especially the droopy eyes, a hallmark of the Robinsons.

I remembered the day in the maternity ward when my mother-in-law cradled our newborn, bursting with pride.

"Oh, my dear grandson looks just like his daddy and granddaddy with those distinctive Robinson eyes!"

Thinking of this, I unconsciously jabbed at the boy's eyes in the photo. Wait! Who was the woman clinging to his arm? Why did she seem so familiar?

Frantically, I increased my phone's brightness. The woman had long, flowing hair, her style glamorous and unlike mine. Her eyes and brows struck a chord.

"Darling, I have to work late again tonight. Don't wait up, okay?"

Suddenly, Ford texted, standing me up again, just like the previous evening.

I stormed into the kitchen and dumped the lovingly prepared anniversary dinner.

The night before, feeling let down, I had driven to another part of the city, only to spot my husband through the large restaurant windows.

I’d wanted to say hi, but a little boy suddenly hugged his waist. Ford lifted the boy up, grinning and kissing the woman beside him.

The boy called Ford "Dad," and the stunning woman "Mom."

The cake said "Happy Tenth Birthday!" What a picture-perfect family they made.

Ford, we’ve been married for ten years, and you have a ten-year-old son?!

Disguised in a mask and sunglasses, I took a cab to his location. It wasn’t his office; he stood outside a toy store, leaning against a pillar, smoking, waiting for someone.

"Daddy!"

A small boy ran over, and Ford immediately stubbed out his barely lit cigarette, tenderly ruffling the child’s hair.

"Ezra, slow down, careful not to trip!"

The woman behind them playfully scolded the boy, sauntering up and entwining her arms with Ford’s.

"Sorry, Ezra wouldn’t eat unless he saw you," she said with a flirtatious smile, exuding both maternal warmth and undeniable allure.

Up close, her face brought back memories—Jolie Adams, a junior from our university days!

On the drive home, my heart pounded as I ran red light after red light, an urgent need driving me onward. A ten-year-old kid, a junior who left school amid rumors of pregnancy.

My heart raced as I delved into the storage room, rifling through boxes for my university yearbook, finally finding the familiar face in a club photo. Though her hairstyle had changed, it was definitely Jolie Adams!

To confirm, I called my good friend Cameron, now a divorce lawyer.

"Valentina? Finally remember the friend you ditched for love?" she joked.

"I want to catch up. Do you recall Jolie from the university club?"

"Of course! Didn’t she leave school amid a scandal with a teacher?"

That was the story back then, both Jolie and the teacher getting expelled. But why did the child look so much like my husband?

"Cameron, hypothetically speaking, if my husband had been cheating for years, what should I do?"

"Don’t tip him off. Quietly gather proof of his infidelity," Cameron advised, echoing my thoughts.

I got a part-time job at Ezra's school as a cooking teacher. With my Le Cordon Bleu certification in French cuisine, securing the position was easy; I recalled the principal's astonished look.

"A Le Cordon Bleu chef? You’re okay teaching part-time at an elementary school?"

Absolutely.

To prepare delightful meals for my husband, I...