I Was a Good Man Until My Wife Went Too Far With Him

"What?" Sandra shot to her feet.

Even William, who had been pretending to be weak just moments ago, dropped the act, staring at me in shock.

"Steven, have you lost your mind? Are you seriously divorcing me over something this trivial?" she questioned.

I didn't feel like arguing anymore. I just nodded calmly.

Sandra's expression hardened, her voice turning sharp. "He's my childhood friend! We grew up together. His parents died young, and we've been there for each other for years. Whatever happens, it's not for you to decide. He's family. Do you understand? Family!"

"Family?" I let out a cold laugh. "Do you go hand in hand with a family member to the store to buy birth control, then head to an adult store together? Do you act intimately with a family member outside a hotel? Do you sleep with a family member? You even used my membership card to pay for the hotel room!"

The more I spoke, the angrier I got. I roared, "Are you sure he's family?"

I stared at her, hoping to catch even a hint of shame or regret. But all I saw was blame—and the fury of someone caught red-handed.

Before Sandra could respond, William stood up and cut in. "Steven, who do you think you are, yelling at her? She's precious to us in this family! You don't value her, fine—but how dare you treat her this way?"

David and Winter nodded along, looking at me like I was some sworn enemy.

I laughed bitterly. Of course—they had always been the true family. I was never part of it. Those words drained whatever desire I had left to argue. I was calling her out for cheating, yet William had the gall to say I was the one at fault.

Sandra seemed to gain confidence from it. She walked straight up to me.

Maybe out of embarrassment, maybe anger—she tore the divorce papers to shreds and threw them in my face. "Steven, stop acting crazy. What exactly do you want? Say it, right now!"

I looked at the torn papers drifting down and then at her furious face. I kept my expression steady, a quiet smile playing on my lips. "It's simple. You choose. It's either William or me. One of us stays. Make your choice."

Sandra's anger flared instantly. "Are you insane? Even now, you still think there's something going on between Will and me? I'm telling you—even if I had to choose a hundred times, I'd pick him. As for you, get out. Now!"

I glanced at her furious expression, let out a bitter laugh, and without a second thought, turned and walked out of that disgusting place.

I used to think of that place as my second home. But no one there ever treated me like family.

Perhaps I had been far too submissive, too eager to please. All those 1,001 confessions in college, every painstaking gesture I made—they made them think I was hopelessly in love with Sandra, like I couldn't live without her.

And maybe, back then, that was true.

I'd given up nearly everything for her. The first time I confessed my feelings to her in college, I was afraid she'd feel pressured, so I rented a romantically decorated mansion just for the two of us.

We'd known each other for a long time by then, and the sparks between us had been building. I thought it was finally my moment to make it real.

At that time, she had responded, "Let me think about it."

I thought that was a rejection, and I was ready to give up.

Then she reached out again, asked me to hang out, and treated me to meals. It seemed like she wanted to keep our game of teasing going—she even reached for my hand.

I didn't understand why she did it, but I fell for her all over again.

That night, she told me she lacked a sense of security—that she needed a lot of love and convincing, and someone who wouldn't leave her.

I thought maybe if I confessed 1,000 times, she'd see how sincere I was and agree to be with me.

From college through seven years of working, I confessed my feelings to her a thousand times. On the thousand-and-first, she finally said yes.

Those 1,001 confessions took years of my life, my youth. Setting aside the time and energy, even in terms of money alone, I had spent millions of dollars on her.

I sacrificed all that to make her happy and give her that so-called sense of security.

It wasn't until now that I realized how ridiculous and hollow her so-called sense of security really was.

Perhaps, once, those 1,001 confessions had moved her, but none of it mattered compared to a single word from William, the childhood sweetheart she always prioritized.

After William's parents died, he moved into her home. He always found ways to stay close to her—claiming he was sick, saying he was in a bad place and needed to see her.

And every time he called, Sandra would drop everything and fly to wherever he was.

I remembered that not long after we graduated, I came down with a high fever and ended up in the ICU.

I called Sandra and begged her to come see me. She kept making excuses—until I promised to buy her the latest designer bag. Only then did she show up, reluctantly.

At the hospital, she sat in the chair I'd bought for her and scrolled through her phone. No concern, no thought for me—she just sat there, lost in her own amusement.

I figured she must have been tired from the trip, so I didn't ask her to do anything. I lowered my head and looked at my phone.

That was when I saw that William had posted something on Instagram, full of self-pity, about wanting someone to be with him.

I didn't think much of it and kept scrolling. However, Sandra's expression changed.

I asked her gently what was going on, and she replied, "My phone's lagging! It's driving me crazy!"

I immediately offered to buy her a new one.

She shook her head and said, "No need. Just send me the money. I'm not feeling well. I need to go to the restroom."

I transferred the money, and she left the ward.

And that "restroom trip" lasted the entire day.

That night at nine, William uploaded another post—a photo of him holding a woman's hand. On her finger was the same ring I had given Sandra.

She had used the excuse of going to the restroom, booked the next available flight with the money I had given her, and flown straight to where he was.

So when she said she wasn't feeling well, what she really meant was that she couldn't stand being around me.

After I was discharged, I wandered the streets aimlessly, like something inside me had caved in. I didn't make it home until late at night.

Now, looking at the crafts we'd made together, the photos, the love letters—I called in a cleaning service and had them throw away everything that had anything to do with her.

After everything was cleared out, I checked my phone.

Winter had been going off on social media and in family group chats, posting long rants about how inconsiderate and heartless I was as a son-in-law.

Some relatives who didn't know the truth jumped on the bandwagon and criticized me as well. A few even talked about showing up at my place to beat me up.

At the same time, Sandra had uploaded something on Instagram. It was a photo of her and William, arms linked, standing by the glass wall on the top floor of a hotel.

The caption read, "Truth will reveal itself."

After letting out a cold laugh, I picked up the phone and called the foundation.

"Hold off on that 50 million dollars donation to the rescue team," I said.

I paused, then added, "Send out everything the investigator dug up these past couple of days. Let the public see what this so-called glamorous rescue team leader is really like behind the scenes!"