Chapter 1
Sitting in the passenger seat of my devoted, almost saint-like husband's car, I suddenly had the urge to try out a viral internet trend.
"Why does your passenger seat smell like someone else's perfume? Are you having an affair?" I asked.
He fell silent for a long moment. When he finally spoke, it sounded like he was discussing something entirely trivial. "She knows her place. She never posts on Instagram or TikTok, and she would never cause a scene in front of you."
In our seven years of marriage, he had never spoken to me in that tone.
His first time ever giving me the cold shoulder was because he was cheating on me.
I stared at his flawless side profile and suddenly felt like I was looking at a complete stranger.
The following morning, I opened my drawer, signed the non-disclosure agreement for the National Science Institute, and mailed it out. I would officially start my new role in three days.
By then, my current identity would be completely erased. I would not be allowed any contact with the outside world for five years.
Michael Reed, we would never see each other again.
*****
The courier grabbed the sealed envelope and stepped out of the living room, only to bump directly into Michael, who was holding a thermal takeout bag.
The courier fumbled. The envelope and the shipping label fluttered, revealing a sliver of the sender's information.
Michael's gaze locked onto that spot, and his pupils constricted slightly.
His lips parted, but before he could say a word, the sound of footsteps echoed behind him.
I walked out of the bedroom.
Michael turned around. His eyes met my face first before quickly dropping downward.
I was standing barefoot on the marble tiles of the entryway, my toes curling slightly from the chill.
The fleeting look of suspicion on his face vanished, instantly replaced by sheer adoration and concern.
"Honey, you are not wearing your shoes," he said.
It was not a question. His voice was low and laced with mild scolding.
He closed the distance between us in three quick strides. Before I could even react, he leaned down and scooped me into his arms.
My hands instinctively gripped his shoulders. His shirt carried the faint scent of cedarwood, ironed without a single crease. His body heat radiated through the fabric.
A wave of bitterness washed over my heart.
This man, the husband who took such impeccable care of me, was still sleeping with someone else.
Taking the hint, the courier quickly stepped outside and quietly pulled the door shut.
Michael carried me into the bedroom and set me gently on the edge of the mattress. He crouched down, retrieving my fluffy slippers from the foot of the bed.
He kept his head lowered, cupping my ankle with one hand. His touch was incredibly light, as if he were holding something fragile, while he slipped the shoes onto my feet one by one.
The pads of his fingers brushed against the top of my foot, feeling slightly cool.
He looked up at me, his eyes overflowing with ridiculous amounts of tenderness.
"The tiles are freezing. What if you catch a cold?" he said.
He seemed like an entirely different person from the man in the passenger seat last night.
As Michael stood up, his eyes fell upon my left ring finger, and he paused. "Where is your ring?"
"The clasp broke, so I sent it in for repairs," I replied and retreated my hand into the pocket of my pajamas.
Instead of pressing the issue, Michael only offered a soft smile and turned toward the kitchen.
The truth was, the wedding band I had never even taken off to shower was currently sitting at the bottom of the bathroom trash can.
It turned out that while our seven years spanned over twenty-five hundred days, letting go of it all took only two seconds.
Michael chuckled and gently patted my head. "Okay. I will buy you a new one next time. You must be starving, so I am going to make you some dinner."
For the seven years of our marriage, he had always handled the cooking and chores himself.
Staring at his retreating back and knowing he probably treated another woman the exact same way left me feeling deeply wronged and bitter, yet I could not shed a single tear.
Later that evening at the dining table, Michael dried his wet hands and smiled brightly. "Honey, I got off work early today and made all your favorites."
The table was set with a beautiful spread. There were braised ribs, garlic butter shrimp, an arugula salad, roasted tomatoes, and a creamy seafood bisque.
Everything was plated beautifully, clearly made with a lot of effort.
As I picked up my fork, the scent hit me.
It was cilantro.
Every single dish was garnished with chopped cilantro, and whole sprigs of it were floating on top of the bisque.
I was allergic to cilantro.
Eating it gave me hives, and in severe cases, my throat would swell up and send me straight to the ER.
I told him this during our very first year of dating, but he never managed to remember it.
A wave of bitterness welled up inside me. I wanted to scream at him, but the words lodged in my throat, leaving me completely speechless.
The person who actually loved cilantro had to be the woman on the side.
Whatever.
I was leaving for good anyway, so none of this mattered anymore.
"Honey, why aren't you eating?" Michael sat across from me, watching with eager anticipation.
"I am," I said, grabbed a piece of the rib, scraped off the minced cilantro, and slowly put it in my mouth.
Michael and I had been married for seven years, and he didn't even know what could kill me.
Who was he really in love with?