Chapter 2

The jeers and mockery around just wouldn't stop.

I couldn't stand another second. I grabbed Michael's meal card and made a beeline for the top-up machine.

"Payment confirmed. 30,000 dollars added." The machine's cold, automated voice cut through the noise.

The entire cafeteria fell silent in an instant.

Every single person turned to look at me, mouths hanging wide open.

"Get whatever you want. If you need more, just hit me up. I've got your back," I said, steady and clear.

I added, "You guys think just because he won't give you the answers for finals, you can pick on him? Well, not anymore. He's with me now. Mess with him, and you deal with me. Got it?"

After that, Michael followed me everywhere, like my shadow.

When we finished college, I gave him a free pass to choose any job he wanted at my family's company, Reed Corp.

No matter what he did, I always had his back—connecting him with the right people, giving him all the resources he needed and making sure he had every opportunity that came up.

Step by step, I took that penniless boy and turned him into a top executive at Reed Corp.

Never in a million years did I think Michael would ever betray me.

The first thing I did after waking up in that hospital bed was call up my family's private investigator.

"Dig up everything you can on Michael. Don't miss a thing," I ordered, my tone icy, no room for doubt.

I added, "And have all the evidence of his cheating ready. I want him out of my family for good."

After hanging up, I tried to pull myself together, battling to keep my emotions from spilling over.

Less than 24 hours later, I got a reply from the private investigator, along with ten gigabytes of photos and videos—all proof of his cheating.

"Mr. Evans has indeed been cheating," the investigator confirmed, his tone cold and professional.

He went on, "The woman he's been seeing is an orphan your family supported. Turns out, they began their relationship in the first year of your marriage. And now, they've got a six-year-old kid together."

So it started the very first year we got married, and now they'd got a six-year-old kid? Michael'd been lying to me this whole time.

The private investigator's words hit me like a punch to the gut, leaving me completely shattered. Then he sent over Michael's financial records from the past few years.

My eyes landed on a transaction from six months ago. He'd bought that apartment just a mile away, the one he'd labeled as "Home—Sweetheart."

So Michael and Hazel had been living their secret life right under my nose all this time.

So what did I mean to him, then? What was the point of my doing all this for him all these years?

Tears streamed down my face as I went over every transaction, again and again, my hands shaking so badly that I could hardly hold my phone.

Before I got a chance to confront Michael, he messaged me first.

It read: [Hey, babe, how's your business trip going? Everything smooth? Miss you.]

I wrote: [Michael, did you ever really love me?]

My fingers hovered over the keyboard for what felt like forever. In the end, I couldn't hold it back. I had to ask.

He replied: [We'd dated for six years, then married for ten more. I've always tried to be honest with you and care about you. Why would you suddenly ask me that?]

Yeah, he truly cared about me. Back then.

There was a time I got obsessed with collecting pretty seashells. He started diving day and night—even when his skin began to peel from staying underwater for too long, all just to make me smile.

When I was burning up with a virus for three days straight, he didn't eat or drink—just sat at my bedside day and night, refusing to leave.

Everyone at the hospital said Michael was one in a million—the kind of husband people only saw on TV.

For more than ten years, I never once doubted his love for me.

But now, looking back, I couldn't help but wonder—how much of it was genuine, and how much was just an act?

Maybe all this time, he was only using me—plotting and taking advantage whenever he could.

I sent him the location for that apartment he'd labeled as "Home—Sweetheart."

I typed: [I heard it's a nice area. Have you ever been there?]

Right after I hit send, it showed he was typing, but five minutes went by, then ten, and still no reply.

Time blurred as I waited, nerves stretched tight. Finally, my phone chimed with his reply.

[Never been, but if you like it, we can just snag another place there,] he messaged back, casual as ever.

I shot back a smiley emoji, then let the conversation die, refusing to play along any longer.

Without missing a beat, I drafted a new message and hit send.