Gareth's POV
In our batch reunion dinner, someone asked everyone to share the craziest thing they’d ever done.
When it was my wife’s turn, the poison she couldn’t quit barged in with his crew and flipped the entire table.
Then he stepped right onto her thigh and grinned at me. “Your wife’s little beauty mark in her pretty little peach? I put that there.”
The blood drained from my face.
Turned out that the mark she’d never let me touch in three years of marriage, even in our closest moments, wasn’t natural.
The whole room went silent. Only he was laughing, loud and smug. “I tattooed it myself the night before your wedding.”
He winked at me and added, “We even made a deal that until the scar on my collarbone healed, she wouldn’t give you a child. Looks like she kept her word.”
Knowing her betrayal of me for three years, bitterness filled my mouth.
I turned to look at my wife, but her face was unreadable. And that silence told me everything.
I pulled her hand off my wrist and stood up.
——
My wife, Marjorie Frost, calmly patted the leg Silas Draven still had pressed against her. “Silas, you should know better. Gareth isn’t like you. He takes every word seriously.”
Only when he pulled his leg back did the suffocating tension in the room ease.
Her closest girlfriends jumped in to smooth things over.
“Yeah, Gareth’s not like us. He can’t handle that kind of joke.”
“You’d better apologize to him, or Marjorie won’t let you off easy.”
Silas gave a mocking half-smile and downed her glass of wine instead. “Why should I apologize?”
Awkward silence fell.
Marjorie squeezed my hand. “It’s the holiday. Let’s not stoop to his level. I’ll get back at him for you next time.”
Next time. Always next time.
On Valentine's Day, she sent me a car full of blue roses, but Silas hijacked it and swapped them for lilies. Since I was severely allergic to it, I ended up in the ICU for three days.
She swore she’d make him pay, but when I left the hospital, I saw his post online, washing his feet in blue rose petals.
And before that, on World Children’s Day, she rented out an amusement park just for us. But Silas cut the power, and we were trapped in the Ferris wheel for five hours.
Why was it always me who had to endure?
How did I never notice?
Maybe the Marjorie, who once grabbed a knife and shattered his collarbone just because he called me a loser, was long gone.
I clenched my wine glass so tightly I heard it crack.
Thinking I’d let it slide, Marjorie told the servers to clear the mess, bring new dishes, and even set out a plate and cutlery for him.
Silas raised a brow, acting as if nothing had happened, and asked, “Weren’t we just sharing our craziest stories? I’m done. Who’s next?”
Everyone looked at each other, hesitant, but I volunteered, “My turn.”
Relief filled the room as they thought the tension was over.
Until I stood, turned, and punched him hard across the face.
Then I lifted my glass and poured red wine all over his head.
He froze, stunned, before his eyes bulged in rage. “Gareth, you dare hit me?!”
Marjorie instinctively grabbed my wrist, but I yanked free.
I smiled faintly, my voice steady over his hysterics. “That is the craziest thing I’ve ever done.”
I then raised my phone, snapped a photo of his pathetic state, and posted it online.
Everyone saw how his face instantly went black as soot.
Grinding his teeth, he roared, “Marjorie! This was always between us. But now your husband made it personal. What are you going to do about it?!”
