CLAIRE'S POV
My husband's buddies decided to spice things up at the year-end party with some entertainment.
A young woman from a dance academy took the stage. She wore a tight camisole that showed off her bare back, and her sultry moves immediately grabbed everyone's attention.
Ethan Carter, my husband, glanced at her and then quickly turned to cover my eyes with his hand, a playful grin spreading across his face. "That's not for you, Claire. Don't look—it's way too raunchy."
Laughter erupted around us, and someone teased, “Man, Ethan, it's sweet how loyal you are to Claire, even after all these years!”
I smiled softly, my hand instinctively resting on my belly. They had no idea. I’d been waiting for the perfect moment to share some big news with Ethan during our upcoming anniversary celebration.
But then I stepped out to touch up my makeup. When I came back, I was astounded by what was in front of me.
Ethan, the same man who had just shielded my eyes, was slipping a business card—tucked with cash—into the strap of the dancer's lingerie.
I stood there, barely breathing, as I heard him lean close to her and whisper, “Claire’s amazing, don't get me wrong. She’s just… too pure. It gets boring, you know? This is just a thrill. Not my first time, anyway. But don’t say a word to Claire. If she ever found out, she’d leave me. And I can’t live without her.”
My legs felt rooted to the spot. Slowly, I turned away and deleted the pregnancy report from my phone.
Without hesitation, I made a call.
“Hello, I’d like to apply for the pregnant cryogenic experiment.”
There was a heavy pause before Dr. Alex Reed, the head professor of the cryogenic research team, finally spoke. "Mrs. Carter, you do realize this is uncharted territory? Are you sure you want to proceed as the first experimental case?"
“Yes,” I said firmly.
His tone softened, almost pleading. “This is about two lives. Please, take a moment to think this through.”
“There’s nothing to think about,” I replied.
I had made up my mind a long time ago.
On the day I married Ethan, I told him, 'If you ever cheat on me, I’ll leave. For good. Even if it kills me.'
Back then, Ethan had pulled me into his arms and promised, his voice steady and sure, “Claire, that’s never going to happen. Ever.”
But here we were, five years later, and his promises had turned to ash.
When I returned to the room, Ethan was all composed on the sofa. There were no women around him.
The dancer was still on stage, though. Her flushed face and slightly disheveled camisole were the only hints of what had happened while I was gone.
If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I would never have believed that the Ethan I knew—the one who always seemed so polished, so proper—could cross a line like that. And this wasn’t even his first time.
Five years of marriage, and I’d been the only one holding on to our vows like a fool.
“Claire, what took you so long? You okay?” Ethan asked, his brows furrowed in concern. He reached for my hand and checked my forehead like a fragile doll.
The cloying scent of perfume on his hand hit me hard. My stomach churned, and I instinctively pulled away, covering my nose.
“Claire!” Ethan’s voice was sharp, almost panicked. “Are you nauseous? Do we need to go to the hospital?”
I shook my head, feeling the bile rise.
“That perfume,” I murmured. “It’s disgusting.”
For a moment, Ethan looked like a deer caught in headlights. Then he chuckled nervously. “Oh, that? The guys were fooling around earlier and invited the dancer over for a drink.”
He leaned in, his eyes steady, as if he was trying to convince me—or maybe himself. “I kept my distance, though. Didn’t want her getting too close. Heck, I even tipped her to keep things professional.”
His tone was so sincere that the old me might've believed him.
“That’s right, Claire,” one of his buddies chimed in, grinning like he was Ethan's biggest fan. “Your husband's a stand-up guy. Brings you along everywhere, doesn’t even give other women the time of day!”
“Yeah, Ethan’s a role model,” another friend chimed in. “Modern-day Prince Charming, seriously!”
I didn’t respond. Instead, I glanced over at the dancer. Her camisole was barely hanging on, and she looked just as embarrassed as I felt.
Someone in the group, quicker on their feet, cracked a joke to break the tension. He even slapped his cheek in mock shame, which earned some forced laughter from the others.
But no amount of joking could erase what I had seen—or what I knew.
