Chapter 1
Everyone said I must've been blessed to end up marrying Michael Quinn.
At thirty-five, Michael was the youngest director at a state-owned enterprise. He was handsome, tall, and never smoked, drank, or went out for business dinners.
He handed over his salary card without hesitation, gave our son a bath and read him bedtime stories every single night, and never missed a weekend family activity.
When I was on my period, he'd make me soup, and he even hand-washed my underwear in the bathroom.
On social media, I was the "life winner" everyone envied.
For five years, every time I posted a couple photo, the comments would be full of "Why can't my husband be like that?", "Where do you even find a guy like him?" and "Erica, you're so lucky."
I really thought I'd married for love.
That was until that Wednesday evening, when I went to Michael's office to wait for him to get off work so we could pick up our son together. In the restroom, I overheard two of his female colleagues talking.
"I just saw Mrs. Quinn. She had me dying. She still had that proud look, like she's hit the jackpot marrying Mr. Quinn. You can totally see she thinks she's better than everyone else."
"The whole company knows about Mr. Quinn's crush. She's probably the only one clueless."
"No way she knows. If she did, she wouldn't be showing off their marriage online every day."
"Honestly, it's kind of tragic. Her husband treats her like she's there to pop out kids and take care of them, and she still thinks she's the luckiest woman alive."
"Honestly, men are more disgusting. They marry one woman but keep another in their hearts.
"Tell me, what does Vanessa Lane have that makes Mr. Quinn so obsessed? She's divorced and saddled with a kid, yet r. Quinn still can't get over her."
"That's not talent, that's pure manipulation. Every time she shows up at the office, she puts on that fragile, helpless act. One glance at Mr. Quinn and he's practically lost his mind."
"Tsk, poor Mrs. Quinn, still in the dark."
I stood in the stall, my nails digging into my palms. My whole body went cold, as if all the blood had been sucked out of me.
*****
Up until that evening, I really was the happiest woman alive.
To be precise, I was actually the dumbest woman alive.
My name was Erica Carter. I was thirty-two, married for five years, and my son Oliver was four and a half. My life was nothing special.
I graduated from a not-so-fancy college, worked an admin job at an ordinary company, had above-average looks, and my family wasn't well-off. Marrying Michael was the only thing I could brag about.
Not just me—my mom, my mother-in-law, my best friend, my colleagues, literally everyone I knew said so.
"Erica was damn lucky" became the running joke around my friend group the day I got married.
Michael was six feet tall, with features so perfect that he looked like he'd stepped out of a government recruitment poster. At thirty-five, he was already a director at a state-owned enterprise.
He spoke softly and was always considerate and thoughtful. At our wedding, he held my hand and said, "I'll only ever be good to you." The whole crowd burst into tears after hearing that.
Back then, I really thought I was the luckiest woman alive.
And after we got married, Michael kept his word. He handed over his salary card, only keeping 600 dollars a month for himself.
Every morning, he'd squeeze toothpaste onto my brush before heading out, and no matter how tired he was when he came home from work at night, he'd always make time to chat with me.
If I got sick, he'd take time off to look after me. If I had to work late, he'd drive me home. And whenever I had a fight with his mom, he'd always take my side.
What touched me most were all the little details.
When I had period cramps, he'd start making me a special soup a week ahead of time, bringing it to my bedside every night and waiting until I finished it before going to sleep himself.
I once said hand-washing underwear was cleaner, so after his shower every night, he'd wash mine, too, making sure they were spotless before hanging them out on the balcony.
When my best friend, Sophie Green, saw this at my place, her jaw nearly hit the floor. "Erica, Michael actually hand-washes your underwear? And the lacy ones, too? Did you save his life or his whole family or something?"
I was laughing so hard that I almost couldn't breathe, and I couldn't help but post on my social media: [My husband says hand-washing underwear is the bare minimum for a real man.]
The attached photo showed two rows of underwear lined up on the balcony—his in dark gray, mine in light colors.
That post totally blew up. There were over a hundred jealous comments.
What I didn't know was that his female colleagues had screenshotted my post and passed it around in their private group chat, with a snarky caption: [Mrs. Quinn is showing off again. LOL. What a joke. Poor woman.]
And I had no clue that every time he made me that soup, he was thinking about another woman.