Chapter 1
My name is Natalie.
I’m 26 and I work at a bank, primarily in investment and wealth management.
My parents were strict educators, so it was a shock when I insisted on marrying Jake, someone whose background and upbringing were so completely different from mine.
Jake was effortlessly charming and undeniably handsome—the kind of guy who’d make any woman’s heart flutter with just one glance.
At the time, he worked as a stylist at an upscale salon. My office was nearby, and I’d often pop in for a haircut. That’s how we got to know each other.
He was witty, humorous, and incredibly composed—nothing like the loud and obnoxious guys I’d known in college.
I was utterly captivated, and soon enough, we started dating.
When my father found out, he hit the roof. He tore into me, screaming.
I cried my eyes out, but my mom, bless her heart, intervened, mediating between us for what felt like forever. In the end, my father reluctantly gave in.
I thought being with the man I loved would be like living in a dream, every day sweeter than the last. Instead, after we got married, I was under immense emotional stress.
Insomnia, nightmares, hair loss, I looked utterly dreadful. Every time I caught my reflection, it was like staring at a ghost.
I’d turn my head to look at Jake, sprawled on the couch, glued to his phone.
His shirt would ride up, revealing his defined abs. Compared to him, I felt even more self-conscious.
My parents, seeing how much I’d wasted away, were heartbroken.
Soon after we married, they dipped into most of their life savings to buy us a house in a prime school district and even gave Jake a chunk of money to further his hairdressing skills.
After his advanced training, he really took off.
He became the salon’s star stylist and was promoted to creative director. But ever since Jake became a director, he got busier and busier. He was out early and back late; I barely saw him.
When he did come home, it was usually late, smelling of liquor and unfamiliar perfume. He wouldn’t even bother to take off his clothes, just crash onto the bed and pass out.
That night, Jake didn’t get home until after midnight, just like always.
He stumbled onto the bed, still in his jacket, and within moments, his snores filled the room.
My heart ached for him. I reached out, gently took his arm, and carefully pulled his jacket off.
With a soft shake, a few strands of wine-red, curly hair drifted from his jacket and landed on the floor. I didn’t think much of it; Jake was a hairdresser, after all.
He always had different women’s hair on him, I was used to it. I picked up the hair, tossed it into the nearby trash can, and draped his jacket over the back of a chair.
Suddenly, a small crumpled piece of paper fell out of his jacket pocket.
Curious, I smoothed it open. It was a supermarket receipt. Just one item: condoms. Purchased at 8:16 PM, tonight.
I froze. Jake and I hadn’t been intimate in ages.
So, who exactly was that box of condoms for? The thought sparked, and doubt took root deep in my heart
. I picked up Jake’s jacket again, carefully checking every inch. Finally, on the collar, I spotted a deep, unmistakable lipstick stain.
Jake had often told me his job involved a lot of women: the sexy receptionist, young new clients, and chatty female stylists. But of course, his most frequent clients were the high-spending wealthy ones.