Betrayal After Five Years of Marriage

One evening, a week before the Valentine's Day, the setting sun bathed the living room floor in a warm orange glow. I sat on the sofa, my fingers tracing the travel guide on my mobile phone screen. Each photo of the blue coastline stirred a quiet warmth in my heart. Willow Scott had just returned from outside, the sound of her changing shoes echoed through the foyer. "Willow, how about going to the seaside for Valentine's Day?" I quickly handed the phone to her. On the screen was a clear sea, with silhouettes of couples holding hands as they strolled along the beach. She bent down to tie the laces of her high heels; her jet-black hair fell, concealing the side of her face. Without looking up, her voice was soft, carrying a faint trace of barely perceptible indifference. That tone, like a long-prepared excuse: "I can't; the company's been busy lately. There's a big project to rush." I silently put away my mobile phone, my fingertips pressing against the cold edge of the screen. Inside, it felt as if a ladle of cold water had been poured over me; we hadn't gone out together for three months. The last time we planned to visit a nearby ancient town, she suddenly said she had to work late. The last time we spoke about going to the movies, she said a client had suddenly arrived. The next afternoon, the cicadas outside sang loudly. The deliveryman knocked on the door and handed me an exquisite white box. The box was tied with a silver ribbon, carrying a faint hint of perfume. This fragrance was not the gardenia scent Willow Scott usually wore, but an unfamiliar woody note. I untied the ribbon, and the moment I opened the box, my pupils contracted slightly. Inside lay a man's watch, the pattern on the dial strikingly familiar to me. This is the limited edition I spotted last month at the mall; I mentioned it to Willow Scott then. She frowned and said, "Too expensive, no need," yet beneath the box lay two plane tickets. The tickets were headed to M Country. I picked up the tickets, my fingertips growing pale from the tight grip. One ticket bore Willow Scott's name, the other, Hugo Shaw's. Hugo Shaw was the new assistant she hired last month; I had met him twice. The first time was when Willow Scott brought him home to fetch some documents; as he handed her a glass of water, his fingers deliberately brushed the back of her hand. The second time was at a company dinner; the way he looked at Willow Scott carried a heat that didn't belong to mere colleagues. How could it be him? I stood there, holding the plane ticket. The cicadas' buzzing suddenly turned sharp, as if something was choking my heart. I couldn't catch my breath. When Willow Scott returned that night, I put the box back in its place, hidden inside the cabinet by the entrance. I wanted to see if she would take the initiative to bring it up to me. At the dining table, we ate in silence, only the soft clatter of chopsticks against bowls breaking the quiet. She occasionally glanced at her mobile phone, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her lips as she replied to messages. That smile was never meant for me. After dinner, she didn't sit with me in the living room to watch TV as she usually did. She went straight into the study, leaving the door slightly ajar. From inside came her low laughter, soft yet distinct, settling in my ears. I stood at the study door, my fingers resting on the handle. The cold touch sobered me slightly, but in the end, I didn't knock. I turned and returned to the bedroom.