Fair Skin, Fast Divorce

My expression shifted. I hadn’t expected him to notice so quickly.

So I cut straight to the point: “Yes. You know I like variety. Why have you been sending me lilies for a whole month?”

He slapped his forehead, frustrated. “Damn it, that’s my fault. Wife, the florist I usually order from had shipping problems.

I had to switch to another supplier, and they only specialize in lilies.

It’s my fault, I didn’t explain. I must’ve made you feel awful this month.”

He shoved aside his takeout and started typing furiously. “I’ll call them right now and ask if the shipment’s back!”

Just like countless times before, whenever it came to me, he panicked and rushed to fix it immediately.

I interrupted him. “Don’t. Just eat. Don’t starve yourself.”

Even Sophia, standing beside me, waggled her brows and muttered in English, “See? You wronged your good husband.”

Ethan smiled again. “So you’re not mad anymore, wife? Don’t worry, I already ordered from a new shop today. You’ll love it!”

After the call ended, the doorbell rang. Ding dong.

It was a massive bouquet of pink peonies.

Utterly dreamy.

I smiled as I accepted it—but then I saw the card.

And froze.

To the beautiful Ms. Adams, please don’t be mad.

But my last name was Carter.

The warmth of his video call still lingered in my ears.

Yet the icy words “Ms. Adams” on that card cut through my reason like a knife.

Ethan had never made such a mistake.

Carter and Adams weren’t even remotely similar.

This wasn’t a slip of the pen.

Sophia’s teasing expression vanished. She picked up the card, face grim. “What’s your name saved as in his phone?”

“Baby,” I said hoarsely, my voice like sandpaper. “Or wife.”

Never once—Ms. Adams.

“Let’s go.” Sophia snatched her car keys. “Didn’t he say he had outside work this afternoon? Let’s follow him.”

We waited in the parking lot until three o’clock before Ethan finally drove out.

He was alone—not work-related.

The black Cadillac slid through the bustling city streets and, shockingly, pulled into the entrance of an old, noisy farmer’s market.

The ground was wet, the air pungent with mixed smells.

Ethan, dressed in his sharp suit, looked completely out of place.

“What’s he doing here?” Sophia whispered, parking in the corner.

We followed from a distance through the crowd.

Ethan walked straight to a seafood stall, his steps determined.

The vendor was a woman, wearing a waterproof apron, scraping fish scales.

Her hair was tied up, revealing a delicate neck, her side profile striking even under the harsh lights.

Ethan stopped in front of her, silently staring.

The woman didn’t look up, her hands continuing steadily as if he weren’t there.

The tension was heavy—not like a transaction, more like a standoff.

Suddenly, she slammed the knife down with a loud clang, breaking the silence.

She lifted her head, her honey-toned face etched with defiance and disdain. She muttered something under her breath.

Ethan’s face darkened.

She tore off her apron and darted into a narrow alley behind the stall, like fleeing from a predator.

Ethan immediately chased after her.

“Let’s go!” Sophia grabbed me, and we melted into the crowd, following quietly.

In the dark alley, piled with baskets and trash,

we hid around the corner and saw Ethan slam the woman against the wall, his movements rough.

“Hiding from me? Where do you think you can run?”