On Valentine’s Day, I got a huge delivery order to a hotel. Two boxes of condoms. Plus a lingerie set. Delivery fee: a hundred bucks. I rushed over through the freezing wind, only to hear my wife’s voice through the door, talking to another man. “Six condoms. You’re not leaving until we use them all,” she said, teasing. They were so eager they hadn’t even closed the door all the way. I didn’t go in. I didn’t say a word. I just sat in the hallway and smoked an entire pack. While I listened to my wife moan, desperate, breathless, urgent, I took the designer bag she’d been begging for and burned it to ash. Late that night when I got home, Isabelle Snow was wearing a sheer nightgown, posing in front of the mirror. When she saw me come in, she quickly threw on a robe. Panic flickered in her eyes. “You’re home so late. It’s Valentine’s Day. Where’s my gift?” Seeing my empty hands, her voice turned sharp. Once, I would’ve caught every flicker of her mood and done everything to make her happy. But tonight, my heart was still as dead water. I returned to the bedroom exhausted and collapsed on the bed without a word. When I turned over, I accidentally touched a small pink tube under the pillow. A line of small print on the packaging. “Restores intimate areas to youthful firmness and moisture, giving him the ride of his life.” I stared at the ointment in a daze. Isabelle rushed into the bedroom and snatched it away, clutching it in her hand. “I’ve had some minor gynecological issues lately. It’s nothing.” She guiltily tossed the ointment in the trash, then made a show of taking out the garbage. When she came back in, she was obviously relieved. I didn’t expose her. I pulled her onto the bed. “What are you doing?” Isabelle resisted. “It’s been over three months. It’s Valentine’s Day-let’s do it once.” I numbly lifted her skirt. Rather than still having desire for her, I was holding in my rage, wanting release. Her expression showed clear rejection as she frowned and pushed me away. “You’re covered in sweat. Your clothes are filthy.” I ignored her and reached to touch her. Slap. Isabelle’s hand landed on my face-not too hard, not too soft. We both froze. She looked a bit panicked, but still turned her face away. “Is this the only thing in your brain?” I stared at the red marks on her thighs that hadn’t yet faded, my mouth curling in self-mockery. How ridiculous. A place where another man could freely roam, yet I, her legal husband, couldn’t even touch. As we remained in this standoff, Isabelle’s phone rang. Someone was FaceTiming her. She immediately flipped the phone face-down in her palm, pulled her nightgown closed, and hurried away, locking herself in the study. I didn’t need to guess who would make her hide in the study to take a call at midnight. I went into the bathroom and listlessly washed myself. Isabelle and I were college classmates, once the template for a perfect campus romance. My billionaire father, worried I’d become a spoiled brat, pretended to be poor from the time I was young, constantly reinforcing the idea that our family had no money. It wasn’t until the day before college graduation that I learned our family actually had billions in assets. I immediately proposed giving Isabelle a proper wedding, but my parents refused to approve our marriage. Between billions in family assets and Isabelle, I chose her without hesitation and cut ties with my family. In her eyes, I was a clueless kid fresh out of college, hitting walls everywhere, while she quickly found a job at an e-commerce company thanks to her good looks. When the company went under and jobs were hard to find, I delivered food in hundred-degree heat every day, never complaining to her about the hardship. I thought true love could last a lifetime. I never imagined how quickly hearts could change. Everything changed when her company got a new boss. A rich heir. Tristan Harrington was handsome, charming, the trendy pretty-boy type. And Isabelle was completely gone for him. She used to be casual about her appearance. Now she was learning makeup, obsessing over skincare and weight loss. Her closet filled up with tight, sexy short skirts and stockings. She loved posting provocative photos of herself in them on Instagram. I’d asked about it once, bothered. “Is it really appropriate to post those kinds of photos on Ins?” She exploded on the spot. “What do you know? It’s competitive out there. If you want to make money, you have to put yourself out there!” Back then, I thought she was just stressed from work. I didn’t take it seriously. If I hadn’t been desperately taking orders to buy her that dream bag for Valentine’s Day, I’d still believe in this relationship completely. I stood in the cold water for a full hour until my whole body was numb, then sluggishly returned to the bedroom. The double bed had only one pillow left. On my phone was a message she’d sent half an hour ago. “I have a meeting tomorrow. Your snoring will disturb me. I’m sleeping in the guest room.” I lit a cigarette and stood outside the guest room door for a long time. Her phone call had lasted over an hour and showed no signs of ending. Coquettish laughter and the kind of dirty talk only lovers say drifted faintly through the door. Even through the door, I could feel how happy Isabelle was right now. The scales of affection had already tipped. Any further pretense was just self-deception.
After a sleepless night, I left the house like a zombie. The mortgage loomed like a mountain on my shoulders. Even time to grieve was a luxury. Between the intense work and my depression, I was dazed when an oncoming luxury car hit me. Ironically, the person who got out of the car was Isabelle. Seeing me covered in wounds, she froze. “Call the police. Call an ambulance.” I was pinned under my scooter, my phone knocked away. All I could do was ask Isabelle for help, my face covered in blood. She said nothing, until Tristan Harrington got out of the car and naturally put his arm around her. “What, you know him?” Isabelle blurted out, “I don’t know him! He’s just some delivery guy!” In that moment, the tearing pain in my heart far exceeded any physical suffering. “Fucking bad luck. Running into some broke asshole first thing in the morning trying to scam us.” Tristan Harrington spat at me, then turned and hooked his arm around Isabelle’s waist. “Don’t bother with him. He won’t die. I’ve got plenty of money-I’d rather pay lawyers than give these poor dogs anything.” She looked back at me hesitantly a few times, then pressed her lips together and resolutely got in the car. Exhaust swept across my face as I lay paralyzed in the road, my eyes caked with blood, my ribs stabbing with every breath. I lay in the road for twenty minutes. Finally a passerby called an ambulance and got me to the hospital. “Mr. Morgan, surgery requires family consent. Please contact your family.” Seeing my silence, the doctor added awkwardly, “These are hospital rules. We all have to follow procedures.” With the only finger I could move, I called Isabelle. Against the noisy background of a bar, Isabelle lowered her voice. “Didn’t I tell you not to call during work hours?” Even though I was prepared, my chest still tightened with pain. “Come to the hospital to sign something. It’ll only take a few minutes.” Suggestive sounds came through the phone, along with Isabelle’s uneven breathing. “It’s just minor injuries. Are you really making such a big deal?” “Derek, it’s bad enough you have no ambition and deliver food. Don’t cause problems and stress me out.” With that, she hung up. When I called again, there was only the cold automated message that the phone was off. Right. I was just a delivery guy. How could I compare to a flashy rich heir? He wore tailored suits and threw money around, while I wore sweat-soaked t-shirts and raced against time for each delivery. I looked at my sun-darkened, peeling arms and felt both pathetic and ridiculous. Why bother? I had billions in family assets I could claim, but I chose to eat bitterness I didn’t have to. “Mr. Morgan, contact family as soon as possible. Any more delay and we might have to amputate.” The doctor’s words snapped me back to reality. After five years, I dialed that long-unused number again. “Dad, come to the hospital to sign for me.”
I spent two weeks in the hospital. Isabelle never called once. On the day I was discharged, my father gave me half his assets. I had the driver and bodyguards wait downstairs while I went alone to the home Isabelle and I shared. When I opened the door, Isabelle hastily pulled on her nightgown. “Honey, wait downstairs for a bit. Now’s not convenient.” She blocked the door with her body, refusing to let me in. A man’s voice came from inside the room. “Babe, where are my pants?” There’s no such thing as regret medicine. Isabelle awkwardly pushed me into the hallway, her back against the door. Seeing the cast on my leg, she finally looked a bit guilty and tried to explain. “Honey, I didn’t know you were hurt this badly… My coworkers were all in the car at the time… I…” “I get it. Having a delivery guy for a husband embarrassed you.” I cut her off. Hit with the truth, Isabelle got defensive. “I’m already exhausted from work. Can you not be so sensitive?” I laughed coldly. “I come back to my own house to see my legal wife, and I have to avoid another man?” “I have to wait for him to leave before I can come home?” A flash of embarrassment crossed Isabelle’s face, then she became self-righteous. “I’m human too. I have needs. You haven’t touched me in months-I can’t find some way to satisfy myself?” “You come home like a dead man every day and pass out. Have you ever cared about my emotions, my needs?” “Derek! You have no right to judge me!” Watching her so confident and self-righteous, I suddenly felt like a complete joke. Back when she held me in our tiny rental apartment and said she didn’t need wealth, just someone loyal. For that one promise, I’d tasted every bitter fruit. She said coworkers mocked her shabby clothes. I worked dawn to dusk to buy her designer clothes, wearing the same pants for three years without replacing them. When she worked overtime, I’d come home exhausted and still do all the housework, preparing healthy breakfasts before leaving. After a full day’s grind, I barely had energy to speak, let alone for that. Now, this had become her righteous excuse for cheating. I asked wearily, “Am I the only one suffering in this marriage?” Isabelle jabbed her finger at me aggressively, like a ruffled chicken. “What’s that supposed to mean? Marrying me wronged you?” Her movements were too dramatic. Her nightgown belt came loose, revealing the torn, misshapen lingerie underneath. Her smooth, pale chest and thighs were covered in humiliating words written in lipstick. The hair there was shaved completely clean. She frantically pulled her robe closed, but I laughed bitterly. The rose I’d cultivated with blood and tears willingly degraded herself for another man. I used to have to beg and plead just to try a different position, and even then I had to check Isabelle’s mood first. Now Tristan Harrington said one word and she pulled out all the stops. In that moment, the last shred of feeling I had for Isabelle vanished. “Let’s divorce.” I coldly tossed out the divorce papers. “Playing hard to get? You think when I actually sign, you’ll cry and beg me to stay?” “Derek, leave yourself some dignity, okay?” Isabelle didn’t even glance at the papers, mocking me instead. I was too tired to argue. I held out a pen. “You’re right about everything. Sign it.” Her expression shifted. She stared at me silently. Tristan Harrington came out and, right in front of me, put his arm around Isabelle. “If you’re not capable, don’t blame women for being materialistic.” As he spoke, he pointed at the million-dollar luxury car parked downstairs. “Let me teach you something. Some things-if you’re born with them, you have them. If you’re born without them, you’ll never have a chance in this life. Got it?” I nodded and sent a message on my phone. “Don’t say things are final. You never know when you might get unlucky.” The moment I finished speaking, several bodyguards rushed over and viciously smashed Tristan Harrington’s luxury car. “See? You just got unlucky.” I smiled. Tristan Harrington’s face turned green with distress. He rushed downstairs without even putting on pants. “I drank too much this time. It was an accident. Everyone makes mistakes, right? Once you calm down, we can talk.” Isabelle pressed her forehead, waving me off dismissively. I laughed coldly and pulled out that day’s delivery order. “Six condoms. Hope they didn’t wear you out too much?” Isabelle’s face changed dramatically. After a stunned moment, she glared at me furiously instead. “Derek! You’re disgusting! You followed me!” I laughed-laughed at Isabelle’s invincible logic. She cheated first, but could still righteously accuse me. I lit a cigarette, smoke blurring my vision. “Just sign.” Isabelle realized I was determined and finally dropped the act. “Fine. We can divorce. But I get the house. Plus you give me another hundred thousand for my wasted youth.” Without the filter of love, I realized how little I knew the woman I’d married nearly ten years ago. I let out a laugh, angry and disbelieving. “The house was mine before we got married. I made the down payment. You’ve spent every cent you earned on yourself. I’ve been paying the mortgage alone. You cheated on me, and you still have the nerve to ask for the house and compensation?” “We’re the same age. My time matters just as much as yours.” Isabelle went full-on crazy. “What did I do? I invited my boss home to talk business. What’s inappropriate about that?” I was shocked by her shamelessness. “What kind of work requires taking off your pants and shaving before you can discuss it?” I stared at her coldly. Isabelle had never seen me so firm. She was speechless for a long moment. “Even if I was wrong, it’s because you neglected me! At minimum I deserve half!” “Besides, you don’t even have proof!” I’d originally planned to part with Isabelle amicably, but watching her throw this tantrum, I suddenly felt disgusted. Nine whole years. In the end, it was my own misplaced devotion. I’d installed smart security cameras in the house a month ago. All their acrobatics were pushed to my phone in real time. I’d wanted to give us both a dignified ending, but she was forcing me to be undignified. Watching me take the camera off the refrigerator, Isabelle froze in place. She never cared about household matters and didn’t even know about the camera installation. Faced with iron evidence, Isabelle changed tactics in a second, playing the emotional card. “Derek, I gave you the best years of my life. You promised you wouldn’t let me live a hard life.” “I’m a woman struggling in society. It’s not easy. You’re still so young-you can buy another house after giving me this one.” I lost all interest in arguing with her. “Take the house. We’re done here.” This property meant nothing to me now. Pocket change. I wasn’t about to keep fighting Isabelle over something so small. Before, no matter how hard things got, just seeing her could reignite my fire. But now? She just disgusted me. Seeing how easily I gave in, Isabelle leaned against the doorframe, smug. “I’m not worse than anyone else. You didn’t really expect me to live a hard life with you forever, did you?” “You’re poor. You’re useless. You got to have someone like me for years. You should consider yourself lucky.” I looked at Isabelle, the woman I’d been with for so long, and suddenly she felt like a stranger. When did the girl who needed me to hold her just to fall asleep turn into this? I clutched the divorce papers and walked down the stairs. I didn’t look back.
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