The Boyfriend Gift From My Husband

At my wedding, a video of my fiancé cheating was exposed. I didn't make a scene; just turned around and walked away, left him to clean up the mess himself.

I went back to my room and kissed my younger boyfriend.

We were halfway through when we got interrupted.

My fiancé stormed in, face red with shame and rage. "Is this really the time? All you can think about is kissing?"

I smacked my lips, still savoring the moment. "Weren't you the one who introduced us?"

My wedding was just around the corner.

I brought my parents and soon-to-be in-laws over to see the new place. They wandered the rooms, taking in the layout.

Then came a sharp, piercing scream from the master bedroom. It wasn't my mother's voice.

I set down what I was holding and rushed to the master bedroom.

My parents' faces had turned ashen.

I saw Raphael Lindt—shirtless, muscles tense—casually picking up a woman's bra from the floor and tossing it onto the bed.

I glanced at the woman in the sheets, just her eyes peeking out. Calmly, I turned around, walked out, and shut the door behind me.

After a long talk, I finally convinced my parents and future in-laws to leave.

Then I sat in the living room, waiting in silence.

Raphael showed no shame. His expression was blank, as if he hadn't just been caught in the middle of an affair. He was handling it well—too well.

He spoke first. "This is a marriage of convenience. As long as it looks good on the surface, that's enough. You're free to find someone else to have fun with."

I gave a small, contemptuous smile, and replied lightly, without hesitation, "Sure."

He frowned at my tone, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it. "As long as you're okay with it, I can introduce you to someone. Better to be with someone I know—less chance of anything going wrong."

Rich families have their own kind of filth. Nothing surprised me anymore.

I tossed out a final line, "Whatever."

Our engagement was born from an old promise between generations. There was never love between us. Even if Raphael were in bed with three women at once, I could look the other way.

A couple days later, he brought a man to meet me.

The guy was good-looking, with sly, fox-like eyes that immediately caught my attention.

"Elizabeth, pleasure to meet you. I'm Tom Calston."

I smiled politely.

Raphael got a call and left in a hurry, leaving the two of us alone.

The silence was heavy. I asked for Tom's contact and made up an excuse to leave.

Then came the wedding day.

To my surprise, Tom showed up.

As I moved through the crowd, he found me and gave my fingers a quick squeeze. I turned to look at him.

He leaned in, voice low, "Your husband's mistress? Over there."

I followed his gaze.

The same woman I'd found in his bed sat among the guests in a bright red dress, her eyes locked on Raphael.

When she caught me looking, she smiled—taunting and smug, like I didn't even exist.

But I didn't get angry.

I didn't care about the Lindt family. And Raphael's mistress wasn't even good enough to get through their front door. That was the difference between us.

The banquet began. Guests mingled, drinks clinked.

There was a screen at the front of the hall. I hadn't even noticed it—until it suddenly flickered to life.

Two faces appeared. Then a flood of intimate photos.

In every shot, Raphael and his mistress looked inseparable, wrapped in affection.

The guests started whispering, their expressions shifting as they realized that the woman in the photos wasn't me.

Raphael’s father shouted, "Turn that thing off!"

Whoever caused the mess could clean it up. I wasn't going to stand there under the spotlight, taking in their pity and sneers.