My mother‑in‑law became even more cautious. She tried to defend her son several times, but I cut her off coldly, letting her words die on her lips.
On the final day, Maya sent news that made my blood run cold:
[Lila! We’ve found it! Ethan used a stock account you didn’t know about to withdraw $120,000 over six months. The money went straight to Olivia’s third-party payment account!]
[He even booked a suburban apartment in Olivia’s name! The down payment was transferred the same way! The chain of evidence is complete!]
I trembled with rage.
$120,000. An apartment.
All our hard-earned wealth—handed to another woman.
The last remnants of love I had for him evaporated entirely.
That evening, I went to the supermarket and bought the best spare ribs and fresh vegetables.
My mother‑in‑law hesitated. “Lila… what are you doing?”
“I’m making something special for Ethan tomorrow,” I said calmly. My tone was measured, but there was steel beneath it.
She opened her mouth, then closed it again. She simply looked at me, a silent acknowledgment of the storm she knew was coming.
Everything was ready. The lawyer’s advice, the evidence, my resolve—every piece of the plan was in place.
Ethan, you’re going to get a huge surprise when you get home.
---
The next afternoon, he returned from his business trip.
I timed everything precisely and moved around the house with calm efficiency.
The rich aroma of braised pork ribs filled the kitchen, mingling with the scent of several of his other favorite dishes, each dish looking perfect and inviting.
My mother‑in‑law sat stiffly on the sofa, her hands fidgeting as she watched me work. She offered to help several times, but I smiled gently and refused.
“Mom, just sit and rest. I’ll take care of dinner today.”
A gentle tone, yet unwavering.
Just before six, Ethan dragged his suitcase through the door.
“Honey, Mom, I’m home! Wow… it smells amazing! I’m starving!”
He set down his suitcase, inhaled deeply, and smiled as he walked toward the kitchen, instinctively reaching to put his arm around my waist.
I turned as if to grab a plate, effortlessly avoiding his touch. A flawless smile adorned my face.
“Are you back? Wash your hands—food’s just ready.”
For a brief moment, he seemed stunned. Maybe my avoidance seemed natural. Maybe my smile made him doubt nothing.
He didn’t hesitate. Approaching the table, he beamed.
“These are all my favorites! You’re so kind, honey!”
He picked up a pork chop, about to take a bite.
“You’re old, and you’re still using your hands? Go wash!” I tapped the back of his hand in a mock-stern tone, my voice calm, normal, unflinching.
“Okay, okay, wash!” He chuckled and went to the bathroom.
My mother‑in‑law rose stiffly, helping set the table, careful not to meet either of our eyes.
The meal unfolded with perfect, eerie harmony. Ethan was famished, devouring food with relish and praising it endlessly.
“My wife’s cooking is still the best! I’m so tired of hotel meals!”
He recounted the “funny” incidents from his business trips, speaking clearly, with gestures, acting the devoted husband flawlessly.
I listened quietly, occasionally offering food, smiling gently, playing the part of the considerate wife.
My mother‑in‑law barely touched her food, her head bowed, silent and tense.
When the meal ended, Ethan leaned back, patted his stomach, and sighed in satisfaction.
“I’m full! I’m so happy!”
He looked at me with that familiar, gentle gaze. “Thank you, my wife, for all your hard work.”
I set down my chopsticks, wiped my lips with a napkin, and let the smile fade. I fixed him with a cold, unwavering stare.
“Have you finished eating?” I asked calmly.
“Huh? You’re done?” His casual tone faltered; he sat straighter, sensing the shift. “Done? Alright… let’s get down to business.”
