Hearing that, Smokey snatched the phone and hung up.
"Alex Dickerson, are you sick in the head? Why are you threatening Derek? So what if he didn't spend New Year's with your parents? I'll go home with you in a few days and apologize—isn't that enough?!"
"If you scare Derek into doing something stupid, can you take responsibility?!"
I let out a cold laugh. "Whether he lives or dies is none of my damn business."
She was furious. "Derek called specifically to explain himself so you could feel at ease, and this is what you say about him? How did I never realize you were such a vile person?"
She slammed the door and left.
My heart was ice-cold. The version of myself who gave everything for her—he wasn't worth it at all.
The year I met Smokey, she was still working at a bar to help her father pay off debts. I was moved by the determination in her eyes. I couldn't help but get close to her, often leaving large tips to ease her pressure.
As time went on, she developed feelings for me too. She would unconsciously tell me about the difficulties at home.
Later, to deal with the debt collectors, her father actually sold her to those people.
She fled to me covered in injuries, eyes blurred with tears, begging me to save her.
I had long since decided to confess my feelings. So at that moment, I protected her without hesitation and took out all my savings to keep her safe.
On the day we got married, I gave her father two hundred thousand dollars and signed a severance agreement. From then on, Smokey had nothing to do with him.
Years later, in the business world, I met Derek.
Only then did I learn that he and Smokey were actually childhood sweethearts.
Since he hadn't shown up when she was at her lowest, I figured their feelings had faded to nothing. When he asked for her WeChat, I didn't think much of it.
But then Derek came looking for her, claiming he had depression—and only Smokey could help him.
I thought she would refuse. She didn't.
I told myself she was just being kind-hearted. Until a month ago, when I worked overtime and came home to an empty apartment.
I called her. "Where are you?"
She was panting. "Husband... is—is something up?"
"What are you doing?"
"My best friend, she... she insisted on dragging me to get a massage. Too... too many people here. Can't hear clearly. I'll call you back when I get home, okay?"
Before she hung up, I heard Derek's voice in the background.
I called back immediately. Video. Again and again.
No answer.
My heart was in chaos.
The next day, I checked every massage parlor in the city. None of them had any record of Smokey.
When I pressed her, she said they'd only registered under her friend's name. And yes, she'd brought Derek along—to help with his depression.
Because I cherished three years of marriage, I chose not to push further.
But I told her: in my marriage, betrayal was not allowed.
She swore up and down.
Days later, she escalated it even more. Eating, sleeping, whatever she was doing—her phone was always open to her chat with Derek. I saw the explicit messages.
Every time I asked, she grew more impatient than the last.
In the end, I gave up. Through a friend at a hotel, I got photos of the two of them together.
Smokey didn't come home for an entire day.
During that time, I saw Derek's social media post. In the photo, he and Smokey were walking hand in hand through luxury stores—as intimate as husband and wife.
I closed the app and contacted a company back in my hometown.
