Betrayed by My CEO Husband I Froze His Fortune and Ended His Mistress

I'd just stepped out of a team dinner with my coworkers.

That's when I spotted them—a young couple by the window. The man was carefully peeling shrimp for the woman, his attention wholly devoted to her.

My colleague sighed wistfully. "See, that's what romance looks like."

She nudged me, gesturing toward the pair. "I bet your husband does that for you every night, huh? Peels your shrimp like a gentleman?"

I opened my mouth to explain that Roger Simmons was allergic to shrimp. In five years together, shellfish had never once touched our table.

Then the man turned his head, laughing at something the woman said.

My expression froze. The blood in my veins turned to ice—and then, inexplicably, I laughed.

Roger Simmons. The same Roger Simmons who supposedly couldn't be in the same room as shrimp without breaking into hives. There he was, leaning across the table to bite the half-eaten shrimp right out of her mouth, his face glowing with a happiness I hadn't seen in years.

1.

The woman startled, pushing him away with both hands. She covered her face, flustered.

"People are watching!"

"Have you no shame?!"

Roger's eyes crinkled at the corners, his voice dripping with indulgence. "You're my girlfriend. Why would I care who sees?"

That voice. I knew that voice—but not that tone. Never that tone. Not for me.

A sharp pain lanced through my chest as I watched him gently pull her hands away from her face, gazing at her like she was something precious.

"Why so shy?" he murmured. "You're nothing like this in bed."

Beside me, my colleague was already whispering to the others.

"People these days have no shame."

"Right out in public."

"Talking about that."

My feet felt like they'd been filled with lead. My chest heaved. The sheer impact of betrayal threatened to crack my ribs open from the inside.

I kept my eyes locked on them—on Roger and this woman, flirting like teenagers—and pulled out my phone. I took photos. One. Two. Three. Then I opened my chat with Roger and stared at the messages he'd sent thirty minutes ago.

[Honey, I have to work late tonight.]

[Don't wait up for dinner.]

[Love you.]

My eyes burned. My colleague tugged at my arm, ready to leave, and I understood: if I pretended I hadn't seen anything, maybe Roger and I could maintain the illusion a little longer. Keep the surface smooth.

But just as I reached the restaurant entrance—

"How much longer do we have to sneak around like this?"

The woman's voice, petulant and sharp.

"My grandfather's birthday banquet is next month. My mom keeps asking me to bring you home."

Her words landed like hammer blows against my heart.

"I can't exactly tell them—" she said, each syllable a nail driven deeper, "—that I'm actually some married man's dirty little secret. That I'm the mistress nobody's supposed to know about."

"And turn my whole family into a joke."

My footsteps halted.

I had assumed—foolishly, perhaps—that she was innocent. That even if I had to confront this, I shouldn't drag some naive girl into the wreckage. That whatever needed to happen between Roger and me, we should handle it cleanly, between ourselves.

I'd planned to tell her the truth. That she'd been deceived.

But this?

This made everything so much simpler.

A cold smile curved my lips as Roger's voice floated over.

"Don't worry."

"Everything I owe you—"

"I'll make it up to you. All of it."

I drew a deep breath and gently freed my arm from my colleague's grip.

"Wait here for me."

I met her confused gaze.

"There's something I need to handle."

Before she could respond, I was already moving.

I walked straight to Roger's table, picked up the glass of orange juice in front of him, and threw it directly in his face.

His expression—pure, slack-jawed shock—was almost worth the five years.

I smiled.

"What a coincidence."

"Roger Simmons."

"Of all the restaurants in the city, you picked my team dinner spot to parade your affair. Should I compliment your taste in venues, or should I compliment—"

My gaze dropped to the mountain of shrimp shells on the table. The mockery rose like bile.

"—your miraculous recovery from that shrimp allergy?"

"Roger!"

I grabbed the second glass of orange juice, ready to drench him again—but his hand shot out and clamped around my wrist.