My Billion-Dollar Bet on My Cheating Wife

I've always been one who doesn't express many emotions. That is, until I've married Vanessa Tate.

But the happy life I look forward to living doesn't come to me. Instead, all I see is Vanessa cheating on me with other men to her heart's content.

When she brings another man home for the seventh time and fills the guest room with loud moans, I walk over to the door and knock on it gently. Even my tone is soft and tender.

"My bedtime is between 10:00 pm to 8:00 am the next morning. As long as you keep the noise level down and don't disturb my sleep, I can pretend that this never happened."

The door is opened from the inside, and Vanessa struts out. She casts me a nonchalant glance.

"Got it." Her languid voice is tinged with impatience. "I'll keep it down. You should rest in your room instead of standing in the corridor in the middle of the night."

The young man, who's a new boy toy of Vanessa's, leans against the bedpost. He leaves his collar open purposefully as he says to me in a taunting manner, "You really are composed. No wonder Vanessa keeps claiming that you're the most gracious husband in the whole wide world."

I merely smile wanly, not bothering to give the boy toy an ounce of my attention.

After returning to the master bedroom, I take the liberty to send the photo I've just taken to my mother-in-law, Evelyn Sinclair.

"Mom, I already told you that Vanessa will never be able to control her urges, and yet you refuse to believe me.

"We already made it clear that you'll have to pay me 100 million dollars every time she cheats on me with a man. I hope that you can stick to your end of the bargain."

The next morning, Dylan Pierce sauntered out of the guest bedroom, wearing my silk bathrobe of all things.

"Vanessa, does Mason really drink his coffee out of cups like this? He's pretty particular, isn't he?"

I sat at the head of the dining table, barely offering a glance as I lifted my eyes. Dylan, on the other hand, had no sense of boundaries at all, walking straight toward my side of the table.

Just then, a hand reached out from the side and caught him firmly by the wrist.

Vanessa Tate's voice still carried the thick, lazy drawl of someone who had just woken up.

"Sit over there. That's his spot," she said.

Dylan pouted, but Vanessa forced him down into the other chair anyway.

"It's just a robe. I'll have my assistant pick out a few dozen pieces from this season's couture collections for you later, so leave his things alone."

She spoke with complete indifference.

Once seated, Dylan deliberately dragged his chair closer to mine. "Mason, your coffee smells so good. May I have a sip?"

As he spoke, he reached for my cup.

Vanessa tapped her fingers on the tabletop, stopping him.

"Your stomach isn't well, and you can't handle something that bitter. Sharon, get him a glass of warm milk."

Then, she turned to me.

"And you—drinking black coffee on an empty stomach first thing in the morning again. How many times have I told you to get rid of that awful habit?"

The moment the words left her mouth, she reached over and pulled the mug away from me.

I stared at the empty spot on the table.

"Got it," I replied, rising from my seat and heading into the kitchen to pour myself a glass of warm water.

Vanessa's voice echoed from behind me. "Did you hear a single word I just said?"

Carrying my glass back into the dining room, I paused next to her for a couple of seconds.

"I heard you. I won't drink it. Enjoy your breakfast."

Dylan suddenly let out a dramatic, whiny groan. "Ugh, my back is so sore, and my legs hurt. Last night was so…"

Vanessa began gently massaging his lower back.

"If it bothers you, go back upstairs to your room," she said, looking up to lock eyes with me. "Mason, you always have this completely detached attitude. It's like nothing in this world actually matters to you."

She paused, her tone shifting back to that of casual entitlement.

"Dylan just came back from abroad, and he's feeling insecure. Since you're my husband, you should be more patient with him, and stop acting like a drill sergeant all day."

There it was again—that convenient excuse.

I was already used to it. In just six months, I had been asked to make room for six different men.

I took a sip of warm water and answered calmly, "Sure."

With the glass in my hand, I went upstairs and closed the door behind me.

I climbed into bed, pulled the covers up high, and rolled over. Picking up my phone, I sent Vanessa a voice message.

"Do whatever you want. Just don't come knocking on my door before 10:00 pm tonight."

I closed my eyes. The faint scent of her perfume seemed to still linger on the pillow.

I had always been detached by nature. Nothing interested me much, and even normal social obligations felt unbearably tedious.

But after we got married, I had someone I cared about and a relationship I wanted to maintain.

For her sake, I forced myself to learn how to play nice and smile through the small talk with the other husbands in our wealthy social circle. I learned how to be the perfect, supportive partner.

Back then, the thing I looked forward to most each day was waiting for Vanessa to come home late at night. She would wrap me tightly in her arms, smelling of the night air and her perfume, and kiss me.

She would rest her chin on the top of my head, her sighs thick with affection.

"Mason, before I met you, I never even thought about getting married," she had told me. "You're so reserved. I'm always terrified that if I look away for a second, you'll slip through my fingers. I only feel at ease when I can keep you right here in the palm of my hand."

The love we once had was real, and the way she once cherished me was real, too.

It was just a shame that her complete indifference now was equally real.