My Wife Proposed to Her First Love

My wife was on a business trip abroad when I stumbled upon wedding photos on Facebook, posted by her childhood friend.

He stood tall in a perfectly tailored suit, a luxury watch gleaming on his wrist, smiling proudly.

Beside him was my alluring bride.

His caption read, [After knowing you for so many years, even if it’s just once, I’m willing to be your groom.]

Bitterness surged in my chest as I flipped through our wedding album, recalling how humble our ceremony had been, marked by borrowed suits barely fitting.

Seven years later, she had spent a fortune overseas to give her childhood friend the wedding of his dreams.

Wiping away my tears, I picked up my phone to call my senior.

“Senior, I’m joining the next rural teaching program!” I declared.

“That’s wonderful, Samuel! With you on board, the children in the village will have a brighter future! Start packing; we leave in three days!” My senior’s excited voice rang in my ears and I couldn’t help but smile, catching his enthusiasm.

After hanging up, my wife returned from her trip, pushing the door open.

Aphrodite wore a fitted professional outfit that accentuated her curves perfectly.

Her cold, stunning aura and captivating features were impossible to ignore.

I couldn't shake the memory of that wedding photo, where she smiled sweetly, leaning against her childhood friend.

Each of their smiles felt like needles, piercing my heart and making my breathing harder.

“You made so many dishes again? Didn’t I tell you? There’s no need to go to all this trouble; we can’t finish them,” she remarked, her eyes landing on the dining table as she frowned and gently scolded me.

I had bought fresh produce early that morning, preparing every dish carefully, all of her favorites.

She had always been so picky.

In the past, after a trip, Aphrodite would complain about the food outside, curling up in my arms and saying she preferred my cooking.

Back then, my heart swelled with happiness at the thought of cooking for my loved one.

But now, her eyes held no warmth or affection, only disdain. A chill settled in my heart.

“I’ll handle it; you don’t need to worry,” I replied quietly.

Aphrodite’s gaze shifted toward me, but before she could respond, her phone rang.

“Aphrodite, I’m feeling a bit unwell; can you come check on me?” The deep voice belonged to her childhood friend, Dimitri Whitlock.

Aphrodite’s panic was palpable as she quickly asked about his condition.

“It’s nothing serious, just a bit dizzy, like I have a slight fever,” he explained.

Without hesitation, she said, “Wait for me; I’ll come right over.”

Grabbing her car keys, she hurriedly added, “Dimitri isn’t feeling well; I’m going to see him. Don’t wait for me to eat.”

Before I could respond, she rushed out the door, leaving the house in silence.

I stared at the untouched dishes on the table, a sense of emptiness settling in.

My phone buzzed and I opened it to see a message from Dimitri.

[Samuel, don’t be angry! Aphrodite is just worried about me!]

Then, he sent a picture of Aphrodite, her brow slightly furrowed as she searched through a medicine cabinet.

I glanced at my hand, the small cut on my finger wrapped in a Band-Aid.

I had excitedly prepared her favorite meal when I accidentally cut myself, but she hadn’t even noticed.

A dull ache settled in my chest and a bitter smile tugged at my lips.