My Cheating Wife Regretted After I Revealed My Identity

I was just filling in for someone else, helping serve wine to the guests. As I passed by the bathroom, a man's voice—playful and mocking—drifted out from inside.

"Mr. Donovan, how does it feel to be with the most beautiful woman in Westerdale?"

I slowed my steps, instinctively pausing.

"It's just average," came the lazy reply.

Another voice chimed in, amused and suggestive. "She may look like a cold goddess on the outside, but in bed? She’s wilder than anyone I’ve ever had."

The second man—Mr. Donovan, apparently—scoffed, his tone dripping with contempt.

"If she’s offering herself up, why not have some fun? Be a waste not to."

He gave a short laugh, then added smugly, "And guess what? She was still a virgin when we first slept together."

The two of them burst into laughter.

The words struck like thunder. I froze, stunned, my brain refusing to process what I’d just heard.

Westerdale's most beautiful woman? That could only mean one person—my wife, Francine Hanson Reeves.

——

Still reeling, I barely registered the bathroom door swinging open. The two men stepped out, arms slung around each other in drunken camaraderie. They stopped short when they saw me blocking the way.

"Hey! Move it, mutt!" one of them snapped.

The voice belonged to the first speaker. I recognized him instantly—Rich Stephenson. A notorious rich brat from Sundown City, a frequent guest at the hotel. Arrogant, reckless, and used to throwing his father’s dirty money around like confetti.

The man beside him had to be the infamous "Mr. Donovan." Rich, for all his usual arrogance, was fawning over him—clearly, Donovan’s background was something far more powerful than I could place.

I remained rooted to the spot, still in shock.

Rich’s face twisted in irritation. "What the hell are you staring at, hick?"

"You deaf or just blind? Move!"

He shoulder-checked me hard as he stormed past. I barely managed to steady the tray, clutching the wine bottle to keep it from tipping.

Usually, I ignore the insults from people like them—people who think a bit of money and power gives them the right to trample others. But this time... something snapped inside me.

Anger boiled up, uninvited and hot in my chest. I gritted my teeth, forcing myself to stay calm, to not react.

As Rich passed, I caught his gaze flicking toward my chest—specifically, my employee badge. He paused, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He lingered just a second too long, as if committing my name to memory, then turned and walked off with Yan.

I finished serving the wine in a daze, then left the banquet hall. My legs felt heavy, like I was wading through molasses.

Their conversation kept replaying in my mind, word for word.

There wasn’t another woman in Westerdale who matched Francine’s reputation. No doubt about it—they were talking about her.

My chest tightened as I pulled out my phone, hesitating only a second before dialing her number.

It rang for a long time.

Then her voice came through—sharp, irritated. "I’m busy. You’d better have something important to say."

My grip tightened around the phone.

She always spoke to me like this—cold, dismissive, as though hearing my voice was an inconvenience.

Swallowing the bitterness rising in my throat, I forced the words out.

"Francine… I want to ask you something. Do you know a man named Russ Donovan?"