Just Foodie Buddies? Yeah, Right.

The restaurant had an air of quiet sophistication. Bamboo curtains separated the private booths, elegant yet ineffective at keeping conversations discreet.

That was how I heard Vincent's voice so clearly, laced with distaste.

The dishes had been served. I lifted my fork but hesitated, my hand freezing midair.

My gaze shifted toward the curtain, half-drawn, half-revealing. Through the delicate slits of bamboo, I saw them—just the two of them.

Vincent tossed his spoon aside, pulled Cassidy into his arms, and raised a playful brow.

"Hey, Cassidy, let's go for skewers tonight. Just us."

She laughed, leaning into him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Sure. Oh, and since you're off in a couple of days, how about a trip up north? I've planned it all out. The barbecue there is amazing."

Vincent agreed without a second thought.

I almost lifted the curtain, but my hand stalled. My eyes widened.

Time off?

Hadn't he told me he'd be on a business trip to Hangston City?

A memory surfaced, unbidden. The sudden uptick in his travel. The gradual shift in his schedule. They all coincided with the moment Cassidy entered his life.

But Vincent's job never required much travel.

I sat there, stunned, absorbing every detail of their itinerary.

Then, as if recalling something, Vincent added casually, "Oh, you should book the hotel. If I do it, my wife might get suspicious. She's dull, but I'm not ready for a divorce yet."

Cassidy, concise as ever, asked, "One king bed?"

Their laughter followed, synchronized and intimate.

And with that, the last vestige of doubt crumbled.

For a long time, I had tried to deceive myself. Maybe they were just close friends. Maybe their boundaries were simply blurred.

But this was something else entirely.

My husband, perhaps, maybe—no. Most certainly.

Was cheating on me.

I lowered my gaze to the sonogram on the table. My fingers pressed into my palm, deep enough to leave crescents of blood.

Tears fell, heavy and soundless.

Vincent's laughter faded into a wistful sigh. "Ah, if only we had met earlier. Marrying you would've made me so much happier. Samantha and I can't even enjoy a meal together. Every time I eat her bland cooking, it's like I'm serving a prison sentence."

They laughed again, careless and cruel.

For a moment, I wanted to fling the scalding tea straight at his face, to slap him hard enough to make him remember his wife whom he had so carelessly mocked.

But reason held me back.

This restaurant was close to my office. Many of my colleagues dined here regularly.

A scene would do me no favors.

My fork slipped from my fingers, clattering to the floor. I didn't bother picking it up.

The food in front of me, once warm, had gone cold and stiff.

Nausea roiled in my stomach. I couldn't take another bite.

A bitter realization settled over me. For three years, I had lived under the illusion of a shared life.

And all the while, my husband had endured my presence as if it were some kind of trial.

If it was so unbearable, why stay?

My hand drifted to my stomach. I whispered an apology.

"I'm sorry, baby. We've only just met today, but I've decided you don't deserve a father like him."

I contacted a lawyer as soon as I left the restaurant. It took some time, but the divorce papers were soon drafted with meticulous precision. Asset division. Property rights.

Since he had betrayed me, I would take everything I was owed.

And today, just as Vincent left home, the finalized divorce papers arrived in my hands.