“Adrian! What are you doing?!” Elara shrieked, rushing to Dorian’s side. Her eyes were bloodshot, her hands trembling as she shielded him. “He’s my friend!”
“Friend?” I laughed, bitter and hollow. “Would a friend interfere with whether we have children? Would a friend show up at our honeymoon villa? Elara, answer me—who’s your husband? Me, or him?”
She faltered, lips parting but no words coming out. Finally, she snapped, “You’re being unreasonable! Wait until I get back at you!”
Dorian clutched his bleeding forehead, yet his tone was gentle, saintly.
“Elara, don’t cry. I’m fine. Adrian just loves you too much. A little bleeding is nothing. Don’t be angry with him.”
Her tears spilled as she looked at him with heartache, her entire body shielding him from me. That sight broke something inside me. In that moment, I realized—I had completely lost.
She dragged Dorian to the living room to bandage him, leaving me on the balcony with nothing but a cigarette and my thoughts.
Her phone lay unattended on the coffee table. The screen lit up with notifications. My blood roared in my ears as I picked it up. A group chat.
Dorian: “We fought again. Adrian’s so stingy—it’s like he’s not even a man. We’ve been like this since childhood. If he hadn’t hit me, I’d suspect he was a woman.”
Elara: “He’s already like this just after marriage. He deserves to be taught a lesson.”
Friend: “If it doesn’t work out, Elara, just divorce him and live with Dorian.”
Dorian (voice message): ‘I’m not mad. Elara just used Adrian’s card to buy me a villa. Right, Elara?’
Elara: “Yes, yes. As long as you’re happy, I’ll support you with Adrian Westcott’s money.”
Scrolling further, the chat was filled with sneers:
“He’s rich, stupid, and easy to fool.”
My hands shook. So that was it. She had already handed him my secondary card, while I’d been stupid enough to keep transferring her monthly allowance like a devoted fool.
The farce was over.
Elara never locked her phone. I used to think it was because she had nothing to hide. Now, it made it easy—I downloaded every chat, every photo, every transaction record.
She came back in, expression cold.
“Because you hit Dorian, this honeymoon is over. I’ll take him home so he can rest. You stay here and reflect on your behavior.”
Without even collecting her luggage, she grabbed her phone and left with him.
I made one call to Mr. Grayson of the Azure Cliffs Villa, asking him to assign a bodyguard to follow them quietly. He agreed immediately—after all, I wasn’t just another guest. I was one of the hotel’s largest shareholders.
Within hours, I had a private jet arranged and flew back to Westcliff before they even landed.
When the bodyguard got off the plane, he sent me a video. On board, a yellow-haired man groped Elara. Dorian rushed forward, punched him, and ended up with his face covered in bruises.
When the police arrived, Dorian was pinned to a table, still cursing. Elara clung to him like a madwoman, screaming at the officers:
“He’s my husband! He was protecting me! We were acting in self-defense!”
Even after mediation, Dorian still groaned dramatically over a shallow cut on his arm.
“Elara,” he rasped, “for you, I’d die.”
She collapsed against him, sobbing.
“Dorian, don’t say that. I can’t live without you.”
Minutes later, the bodyguard sent me another update.
A new address.
They weren’t going back to Dorian’s home.
They had gone straight to the wedding house Elara and I had spent six months renovating together—a home that still smelled of fresh paint, a home I had never even set foot in as a husband.
Elara sent a message: “Adrian, Dorian and I ran into an old friend. We’re staying out all night and won’t be back.”
She didn’t know I’d had surveillance cameras installed in the wedding room—originally just to make sure the workers hung the wedding photos properly. Now, on the feed, I watched her and Dorian kiss as soon as they stepped inside, then vanish into the bathroom together.
That was all the evidence I needed.
I called my butler. “Have the lawyer draft a divorce agreement.”
A pause.
“Also, dig into the transfer records between them.”
My tone remained level, almost too calm. “Contact a few top streamers. The ones who can arrive fastest. Send another car with two bodyguards—I’m going live tonight.”
I opened the app, typed the stream title: “Honeymoon Threesome: My Wife and Her ‘Best Friend.’”
At first, only a trickle of viewers joined. Clickbait? Another desperate stunt? they typed. But when a few big-name streamers linked in, the audience shot past 100,000.
I forced a smile, one that felt more painful than crying.
“People always say men and women can be ‘just friends.’ Tonight, let’s test that theory.”
I stood before the bridal chamber, scanned my fingerprint, and nodded. My bodyguard kicked the door open.
“Everyone, look for yourselves.”
