I couldn’t bear another word. I turned to leave—
when suddenly, a massive wave struck, and the cruise ship lurched violently.
Tristan was standing too close to the edge, speaking animatedly. With a shriek, he was thrown into the sea.
Before anyone else could react, Cassandra grabbed a lifebuoy and jumped straight in after him.
I froze.
She was pregnant. She couldn’t swim. She’d once clutched my arm during a ferry ride, whispering that she was terrified of water.
Yet here she was, plunging headlong into the waves for him.
I couldn’t watch her play the hero for another man. I turned away and headed directly for the hospital where she had her IVF treatment.
When I saw the sperm donor’s name—Tristan—something inside me snapped.
Cassandra, you’re finished.
Later, after I’d submitted the evidence to the law firm, Ella hurried over, face grim. She shoved her phone into my hands.
The video shook with movement. On the beach, Tristan knelt, sobbing, forcing air into Cassandra’s lungs. When she coughed back to life, he crushed her in his arms.
“Cassandra, I can’t lie anymore,” he cried. “I love you! Fool, I’ve always loved you!”
The crowd cheered as they clung to each other, soaked and trembling, mouths pressed together in a fevered kiss.
The mermaid had saved her prince. Their love was unshakable. They even had a child together.
And me? Just the pitiful green bubble, popping uselessly in the sunlight.
The second video cut in. Tristan carried Cassandra into a hotel, bridal style.
At that exact moment, a message lit up on my phone: Honey, my phone’s broken. I’m using a friend’s. I’ll be sleeping at my bestie’s house tonight. Good night~
I stared at it for a long time. Then, slowly, I sat up.
“Ella,” I said evenly, “frame that sperm donation certificate. And hire a brass band. Make sure they’re the loud, nosy kind.”
She blinked. “What are you planning?”
“Simple,” I said, savoring each word. “I’m bringing a wedding gift to the hotel—brass band blazing—to celebrate my wife’s remarriage.”
When everything was ready, I went live. With a sorrowful face, I told the stream:
“Brothers, I’m in agony. My wife swears she and her male best friend are just friends. Am I being paranoid?”
The comments poured in.
[You’re too insecure. Men and women can be pure friends.]
[Streamer’s just petty.]
I shook my head, sighing.
“No, no, not petty. She learned her lesson after the last conflict. If there really is an affair, I won’t hesitate. I’ll even arrange her wedding myself!”
The livestream exploded. The hashtag “One Woman, Two Husbands” shot up the hot list.
By the time I slipped into the hotel with the troupe, the audience count had broken records. Using a trick I’d learned online, I swiped a room card.
We pushed the door open.
Inside, chaos—clothes scattered, two half-naked bodies entwined.
I slapped a hand to my mouth and shrieked theatrically:
“Wow! Such good friends! Playing tortoise-and-honey games—so fun to touch, so fun to eat!”
