On the day my mother died, my wife, Hannah Pruitt, took a tumble down the stairs. Just like that, our unborn child was gone.
While I drowned in grief, Hannah played the considerate wife perfectly. She squeezed my hand, voice soft. "Focus on Mom's funeral. I'll check myself into the hospital to recover. Don't worry about me."
She used her recovery as a shield. For a month, she barely set foot in our home.
Then came the day I visited a new café and casually exchanged WeChat contacts with the young man at the counter.
Later, I scrolled through his Moments. His feed was a shrine to vanity, tagged "Daily Life with My Rich Sugar Mommy." Every photo was a blatant flex of wealth.
I scrolled to a post from a month ago.
"Eight rounds in one night. She was satisfied as hell."
"She even got rid of that other guy's kid for me. Guess I need to work harder to make it up to her."
Beneath it, a comment:
"You're the best, babe. Come over tonight. I'm waiting."
The account belonged to Hannah Pruitt.
The timestamp: 1:00 a.m.—the exact hour I'd been sitting vigil for my mother. Alone.
I stared at the screen, blood turning to ice.
——
The phone buzzed. Hannah.
"Honey, I left a crucial company seal at home. I need it for a contract immediately. Can you call a courier?"
I found the seal. But I didn't call a courier. I drove there myself.
At her company, the receptionist blocked my path.
"Who are you here to see? Do you have an appointment?"
I paused. We'd kept our marriage low profile, but to be completely unrecognized in my wife's own building?
"Ms. Pruitt asked for this." I held up the seal.
The receptionist sneered at my plain clothes. "Hand it over. I'll pass it on."
I pulled back. "No. She requested I deliver it personally."
She rolled her eyes. "Ms. Pruitt isn't available. She's out with her husband. Wait in reception if you must."
Her husband.
My expression darkened as I walked to the reception area. It shared a wall with Hannah's office.
Outside, a group of female employees gossiped, voices carrying clearly.
"I really envy Ms. Pruitt. Her husband is so young and hot."
"Last time I walked past her office, the noise... Youth really does have stamina."
"Don't be jealous. Once you get rich, you can find yourself a boy toy too."
My fingernails dug into my palms until skin broke.
Moments later, voices drifted through the thin wall.
"Come on, let me handle the Nancheng project. Please, babe?" Adrian Dickerson, his voice dripping with sugar.
Hannah sounded strained. "No. You've only been running the café a few days. Business requires patience. We'll discuss the project later."
Adrian laughed—low, predatory. "Fine. But we still haven't christened the floor-to-ceiling window."
Hannah's voice turned flustered. "Stop it... not here. Someone could come in..."
Her protest was smothered by a wet, sickening sound.
I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply, fighting the urge to kick down the door. I pulled out my phone and silenced it.
My thumb hovered over an app I hadn't touched in years. I'd had a hidden camera installed in her office when she started the company—a security measure against harassment and disputes. I'd never used it to spy.
Until now.
I opened the live feed.
The image loaded. Rage surged through me, cold and sharp.
Against the panoramic window, two silhouettes merged in sunlight. Their movements were feral, uninhibited.
When the frantic motion ceased, Hannah pressed a kiss to the corner of Adrian's mouth. Her voice was thick with languor.
