Only then did it click—he'd called me over this late just to watch this little show.
He handed me a cup; the chocolate cocoa warmed my hands.
Funny. Back then, discovering Alex was cheating also started with a drink.
The first time I caught him cheating was on my college graduation day.
I'd spent hours preparing all his favorite dishes, waiting for him to come home so we could celebrate together.
But unlike usual, he came back late. Very late.
Everything I'd made had gone cold.
He pushed open the front door, saw the decorations, and froze for a second—only then remembering what day it was.
He rubbed the back of his head and awkwardly handed me a cup of milk tea.
Matcha cocoa.
He'd forgotten I'm allergic to matcha.
A woman's intuition is sharp. My heart sank instantly.
Alex rushed into the bathroom, completely ignoring my mood.
That night, while he slept, I quietly unbuttoned his shirt.
Phone flashlight on. His waist, his neck—covered in kiss marks. Some fresh, some fading.
I felt like I'd fallen into an ice cave.
It was the middle of summer, yet I couldn't stop shaking.
I shook him awake, furious, demanding to know who left those marks.
Before he could even make an excuse, his phone lit up. An intimate message popped up: "Bro, last night was so much fun~"
I smashed his phone to pieces.
I cried, screaming at him—why? Why was he doing this to me? Why cheat?
I was hysterical, a madwoman smashing everything in sight. Pathetic as a clown.
He knelt at my feet, sobbing, swearing it would never happen again.
Over and over, he kowtowed, saying he was wrong.
I thought he would change.
After that, I became paranoid.
If he came home even a little late, I couldn't help but interrogate him.
And he grew more impatient. He came home less and less, always carrying the scent of unfamiliar perfume.
I didn't know how many lovers he had. Those women never showed their faces.
Until I saw it with my own eyes—him making out with a blonde in a bar.
I told him I wanted to break up.
He looked down at me, sneered. "Break up? I don't agree. You think you can just leave because you want to?"
He stroked my cheek gently, then roughly dragged me onto the bed.
His voice was demonic, breath hot against my ear. "You think you can leave?"
He pulled a USB drive from his bag and waved it in front of my face.
"Be a good girl and stay my lover. I promise you're the one I love most—the others won't affect your position."
"Otherwise... this is full of our intimate videos. Want them leaked?"
He took a long drag of his cigarette and blew all the smoke directly into my face.
I choked, coughing violently.
His gaze was ice. "In this life, don't even think about leaving me. You have no other choice. You can only choose me."
"If you still want your reputation, endure it. Otherwise..."
He shook the USB drive.
To punish me for mentioning a breakup, he locked me in the house for a month.
I lived without daylight in that room.
My heart hurt until it split open. My tears ran dry.
I didn't know when he'd filmed those videos.
Every intimate moment between us—turned into leverage to threaten me.
During that month, I couldn't eat. Sometimes just thinking about what was in those videos made me so sick I wanted to throw up.
