The moment I pushed open the bedroom door, I killed my three-year marriage with my own hands. Outside the door was the anniversary surprise I had carefully prepared; inside was my husband Jack and my best friend Chloe. It was time for this farce to end, and I would be the one to bring down the curtain.

A strange mixture of scents hung in the air: Jack's favorite Armani Code cologne, Chloe's signature Dior Addict perfume, and another more primal scent of sweat. They blended together in a sickening combination, like an invisible net that ensnared my once joyful soul and dragged it into a suffocating abyss.


I was still clutching the chilled Dom Pérignon, condensation wetting my palm, ice-cold to the bone. At my feet lay the Black Forest cake I'd just picked up from the most exclusive dessert shop in New York. The rich chocolate aroma now smelled like rotting offerings.

I had imagined our third anniversary countless times—candlelight, champagne, soft music, and Jack's heartfelt declaration of love. The one thing I never imagined was that there would be three players in this scene, with me as the only fully dressed spectator.

On the walnut bed we had carefully chosen together, two naked bodies twisted like pale snakes, entangled with each other. Hearing the door open, they separated in panic. Jack abruptly sat up, his muscular chest still bearing telltale red marks. Beneath him, Chloe—the woman who just yesterday had been holding my arm and intimately calling me "Amy"—screamed as she yanked up the blanket to cover her equally compromised body.


Time stretched into slow motion. I watched the panic on Jack's face transform within seconds to annoyance, then to reckless indifference. In Chloe's eyes—those eyes that always seemed to glisten with tears—behind the shame lurked a fleeting, morbid satisfaction.

"Emily? How... how did you come back early?" Jack's voice cracked as he fumbled with his pants, as if clothing himself could somehow stuff everything back into the cracks of time.


I didn't answer, just quietly watched them, as if observing a pathetic play that had nothing to do with me. My mind went blank, the pain delayed, with only an absurd feeling bubbling in my chest, nearly making me laugh out loud.

"Amy, listen to me," Chloe wrapped herself in the blanket and edged to the corner of the bed. Her face—the one that always seemed to evoke sympathy—crumpled as tears appeared on cue. "We... we both drank too much. I don't know how this happened... It's my fault, don't blame Jack..."

Had too much to drink? A cold smile curved at the corner of my mouth. I remembered clearly that just this afternoon Chloe had texted me, saying she needed to attend an important business dinner and regretted missing my anniversary. So it turns out, her "business dinner" was being held right on my bed.

"That's right, Emily." Jack seemed to have found a lifeline in Chloe's words. He stood up, his tone taking on that typical, self-righteous husband attitude. "Can you stop being so dramatic? It was just an accident! Do you have to make such an ugly scene?"

"Ugly scene?" I finally spoke, my voice surprisingly calm even to myself. "What I'm seeing—isn't that ugly enough already?"

"What do you mean?" Jack frowned, that impatient expression all too familiar. He always wore it whenever I questioned his excuses for coming home late or complained about him never helping with housework. "You're just a nagging wife all day, mediocre at work, and getting duller by the day. Do you have any idea how much pressure men face out there? I just made a mistake that any man would make!"

"A mistake that any man would make?" I repeated his words, each syllable like a poisoned ice dagger piercing my already wounded heart. I looked at this stranger—this man I had loved for three years, whom I once thought would spend his life with me. "So, this is your reason for betraying me? Because I'm boring? Because I lack passion?"

"What else?" He seemed to think his logic was flawless. "Look at yourself, Emily! T-shirt, jeans, no makeup, nothing! Can you even be seen in public with me? Chloe is gentler than you, more considerate than you, and understands me better than you!"

At that moment, I finally understood. All the love, promises, and solemn vows—when a man grows tired of you, even the rhythm of your breathing becomes an offense.

Just then, keys rattled in the lock. My controlling mother-in-law Karen walked in with her shopping basket. She had obviously heard the argument and marched straight toward the bedroom.

When she saw the scene inside the room, her wrinkled face flashed with momentary shock before she made the most instinctive reaction of a mother—to protect her son.

She pulled Jack behind her protectively, like a mother hen guarding her chick, glaring at me fiercely with her shrewd, narrow eyes. "Emily! Why are you making such a scene? Don't you know family matters should be kept private! If Jack did something wrong, couldn't you just talk to him quietly? Why must you create such a commotion!"

I trembled with anger, almost unable to speak.

"Mom, please stop..." Jack tried to intervene with feigned sincerity.

"Am I wrong?" Karen's voice grew increasingly shrill. "Chloe is such a good girl, she must have seduced our Jack! But then again, it takes two to tango! Emily, if you were good enough yourself and could keep your man satisfied, would he go looking elsewhere?" She looked me up and down, her gaze full of contempt. "Look at you—average job, average background—it's only because our Jack is kind-hearted that he was willing to marry you. What right do you have to make a scene when you're just a woman who couldn't survive without our Jack?"

Couldn't survive without Jack?

Those words struck like lightning, splitting open my foggy mind. All the pain, grievance, and anger were suppressed in that moment by an even stronger force—an ice-cold clarity ignited by extreme humiliation.

Looking at the three ugly faces before me—Jack's selfishness, Chloe's hypocrisy, Karen's meanness—I suddenly found it all absurdly laughable. For the sake of this so-called "family," I had abandoned my own social circle, concealed my background, and willingly played the role of an "ordinary" wife in their eyes. I thought it was love, but in reality, it was just a three-year-long charade that I had scripted and performed myself.

I stopped looking at them, turned around, and walked back to the living room without saying a word.

"Where are you going? We haven't finished talking!" Karen screamed behind me.

I ignored her and went straight for my phone inside my Hermès bag—a bag I'd secretly bought after Jack once mocked me for "having poor taste and knowing nothing about luxury goods." To this day, he still believed it was a knockoff.

I unlocked the screen, and those names I had deliberately ignored for three years now shone with a different light in my contact list. I skipped past the numbers marked as "Brother" and "Sister," and went directly to the contact saved as "Father."

I pressed the dial button.

The call was answered almost immediately, and a steady, authoritative voice came through from the other end: "Emily?"

I took a deep breath, trying with all my might to suppress the trembling in my voice, making it sound calm and resolute.

"Dad," I said, "I need help."

There was silence on the other end for two seconds, then just one response: "Understood."

The call ended.

I put away my phone and sat on the living room sofa like a soulless puppet, quietly waiting. The arguing and placating voices from the bedroom continued. Jack and Karen seemed to be discussing how to get me to sign a divorce agreement that would benefit them the most. They probably thought I was just being stubborn and would eventually give in.

They didn't know that when a woman decides to stop loving, she can become more dangerous than they could ever imagine.

About half an hour later, the doorbell rang.

Karen walked impatiently to open the door, muttering: "Who the hell is it at this hour..."

Her words came to an abrupt halt.

A man stood at the entrance. He wore an impeccably tailored Tom Ford suit, his posture ramrod straight, his presence so commanding that the entire hallway seemed to shrink around him. He was in his thirties, with handsome, austere features and eyes as deep as a frozen lake—showing no emotion yet carrying an undeniable weight.

Karen was stunned by his gaze, momentarily forgetting to speak.

The man nodded slightly, his gaze passing over her and landing precisely on me in the living room. Then, he turned his attention back to Karen's face, pulled out a sleek card holder from his inner suit pocket, extracted a business card with two fingers, and politely handed it over.

"Good evening, I am Miss Emily's legal representative, Liam Ford." His voice was deep and steady, each word distinctly clear, carrying the precision and coldness of legal text. "From now on, regarding any matters concerning the divorce, please communicate directly with my law firm."

Karen and Jack, who was poking his head out from the bedroom, were instantly stunned. They stared at the minimalist business card bearing the title "Partner at Kingsley & Ellis Law Firm," their expressions as if they had seen a ghost.