Seven years into our marriage, I found records of Julian and his intern checking into a hotel on his phone. It was 3 AM. I sat on the closet floor, clutching the luxury scarf he’d brought back from his business trip. The packaging had a label from a Fifth Avenue boutique, but his credit card statement showed no such purchase. The shower in the bathroom stopped. I quickly locked his phone screen, which he’d forgotten to close, revealing SnapChat. The latest message was a voice note from Chloe, “Julian, no more bites on the neck. It’s asking for trouble at the office.” In the background, I heard the familiar ticking of the watch I’d given him last month. “Still awake?” Julian walked out, toweling his hair dry, water still clinging to his abs. My eyes caught the fresh scratches across his collarbone. And then I remembered the medical report from earlier that day. My CA125 levels were soaring, a red flag for gynecological tumors. He leaned in to kiss me, but I turned my head, dodging him. “You said you were in Seattle last week for a meeting?” “Yeah, discussing a project with Mr. Thompson.” He answered quickly, his fingers unconsciously tracing the edge of his phone. That was his tell when he lied. How pathetic. The boy who once stood up for me now couldn’t even bother to change his excuses for cheating. My phone buzzed. Chloe had sent an ultrasound image: “Mrs. Julian, what do you think the baby should call you when it’s born? Auntie or Mommy?”
The champagne tower at the company’s IPO celebration reflected the crystal chandeliers. I stood beside Julian, watching him effortlessly charm various investors. The sapphire cufflinks on his suit – my birthday gift to him last year – sparkled with a cold light as he raised his glass. “Mrs. Julian, you truly are blessed,” a board member’s wife leaned in. “I hear you two were college sweethearts? From campus to a publicly traded company, that’s rare among young people these days.” I forced a smile, my gaze unconsciously following Julian. He was leaning in to listen to a female investor, a familiar curve playing on his lips. The woman wore berry-colored lipstick, her fingers subtly brushing Julian’s arm as she spoke. My phone vibrated in my palm-a reminder about my medical report from the hospital. I swiped the screen open, my eyes suddenly fixated on a particular number. CA125 levels, abnormally high. A gynecological tumor marker. “What are you looking at?” Julian appeared beside me, his breath carrying the scent of wine. I instinctively locked the screen. “Nothing, just a routine check-up from the hospital.” As I reached to straighten his slightly crooked tie, my fingertips brushed his neck. There, a trace of rose-red that didn’t belong under the ballroom lights caught my eye. Julian flinched back a step. “What’s wrong?” I asked, my hand frozen in mid-air. “Just a little warm.” He loosened his tie, his gaze sweeping over my shoulder. “Mr. Thompson is looking for me. Why don’t you head home first?” That rose-red smudge was clearly half a lipstick print.
In our seventh year of marriage, Julian started putting a password on his phone. “The client information I’m handling lately is too sensitive,” he explained, his fingers tracing a pattern on the screen that I couldn’t understand. Back in college, we’d shared the same Amazon account. He even wrote in his graduation thesis acknowledgements, “Thanks to Audrey for letting me check her phone anytime for inspiration.” Now, his phone was always face down. I stood in the closet, clutching the silk scarf he’d brought back from his business trip last week. The Hermès box had a label from a Fifth Avenue boutique, but there was no record of this purchase on his credit card statement. Deep in his closet, in the pocket of a gray suit he often wore, I found a crumpled hotel receipt. The date on it was the exact day he claimed to be in Seattle for a meeting. At the bottom of the receipt, it read: The Ritz-Carlton, downtown LA. I opened the map app. It was only 0.75 miles from company headquarters. The sound of the shower started in the bathroom. I mechanically tied the scarf around my neck. The silk fabric felt like a cold snake against my skin. The woman in the mirror had a pale face, dark circles under her eyes from insomnia. A thirty-year-old woman, no matter how well she takes care of herself, can’t compete with a twenty-year-old’s collagen. The water stopped. I quickly exited the map app. Julian walked out, drying his hair, water droplets trailing down the ridges of his abs. I had touched this body countless times, but now it felt like a stranger’s. “Tomorrow’s your birthday,” he said, picking up his phone from the bedside charger. “What do you want for a gift?” I gazed at the fresh scratches on his collarbone and softly replied, “Come with me for my check-up tomorrow. My report just came in.” “Tomorrow?” He frowned. “I don’t think I can make it. I have to fly to New York unexpectedly for an important client.” His fingers tapped rapidly on the screen, a subtle smile playing on his lips. “I’ll have my assistant book a restaurant. You can celebrate with your best friend?” I watched his eyebrows twitch as he typed. Ten years ago, when he confessed his feelings for me, he’d been texting and secretly smiling like this. Later, I learned he was live-streaming his confession to his dorm group chat; his buddies had bet he wouldn’t dare kiss me. Now, the curve of his lips was exactly the same as it had been back then.
On the morning of my birthday, I received flowers from Julian via his assistant. Ninety-nine Ecuadorian roses, with a card bearing a standard printed greeting. Even the signature was typed. My phone vibrated. A message from Julian. “Flight’s been moved up. Heading to the airport now. Happy Birthday, I’ll make it up to you when I get back.” I called him. It rang seven times before he picked up. The background was silent, definitely not the bustling airport. “Are you in the taxi yet?” I asked. “Yeah, almost at Terminal 3,” his voice had a strange gasp to it. “Signal might be unstable.” I opened the location sharing app. Our shared location, set up for safety, showed him in a high-end apartment complex in downtown LA. That red dot stung my eyes. “Which hotel did you say you stayed at last time?” I tried to make my voice sound casual. “The Peninsula,” he blurted out, then quickly corrected himself, “No, it was the Hyatt near the airport.” A faint female voice whispered in the background: “Julian, the hot water in the bathroom…” The call suddenly disconnected. I stood in front of the full-length mirror, looking at my carefully chosen nude-pink silk dress. It was Julian’s favorite color. He said it reminded him of the nightgown I wore on our first date. Now, the dress hung empty on my body. I’d lost twelve pounds in the last two months. On the coffee table lay the gift I hadn’t been able to give him. A pair of matching Patek Philippe watches. The men’s watch had “To My Lighthouse” engraved on the inner side of the dial. The women’s, “To My Harbor.” In our senior year of college, we watched a lighthouse by the sea. He said I was his eternal light when he was lost. I said he was my safe harbor after wandering. A sound came from the entryway. I turned, surprised and hopeful, but only saw the delivery guy. He handed me a cake box. “Mr. Julian ordered it. Requested delivery for 7 PM sharp.” Inside was a one-pound Tiramisu. But I was lactose intolerant.
I drove to the apartment complex. The security guard waved my Porsche through without question. Julian’s Audi A8 was parked on basement level B2. Its license plate ended in 668, our wedding date. The elevator required a key card. I stood in the lobby and called Julian. On the seventh try, he finally picked up, his voice laced with suppressed anger. “What’s wrong? I’m with a client.” “I’m in the lobby of The Sycamore Residences,” I said. “Either you come down, or I’ll ask the building management to open the elevator.” A dead silence filled the other end of the line. Five minutes later, the elevator doors opened. Julian stood there, wearing dark blue loungewear I’d never seen before, his collar open, revealing fresh hickeys. Behind him stood a young woman in a silk robe, pinning her bangs with one of my hair clips. “Audrey?” the girl gasped. “Oh my god, Julian, why didn’t you say anything sooner…?” I recognized her. Chloe Yang, a marketing management trainee hired last year during campus recruitment. I had personally put her employee badge on her when she started. She’d told me she envied Julian and my love story. Now, she wore my wedding ring on her ring finger. Last year, I mentioned my ring felt a bit loose and needed resizing. Julian had offered to take it to the jeweler. Later, he said the jeweler suggested a complete redesign, which would take three months. “Let’s talk upstairs,” Julian reached out for me. I shrugged him off, pulling the pair of watches from my bag and throwing them to the ground. The sound of the watch faces shattering echoed through the lobby, and the security guards looked our way, alerted. “Happy Birthday, Julian,” I said, turning towards the revolving door. “The divorce papers will be in your inbox tomorrow.” Behind me, Chloe cried out, “Audrey, you’ve misunderstood! We were just discussing a project…” I pressed my car key, and the Porsche’s headlights cut through the dusk like a knife. In the rearview mirror, Julian stood rooted, only looking down at the mess on the floor. I knew that posture too well. In our junior year, when I was hospitalized with acute appendicitis. After signing the surgical consent form, he had stood in the hallway just like that, staring at his sneakers for forty whole minutes. “Audrey,” he’d said then, “what would I do if something happened to you?” Now, his expression was identical. Only this time, his “what would I do” no longer included me.
🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “NovelMaster” app 🔍 search for “301642”, and watch the full series ✨! #NovelMaster #浪漫Romance #现实主义Realistic #重生Reborn #励志Inspiring
Leave a Reply