The CEO’s Secret Divorce Text Killed My Husband

Flora laid it out like she was scheduling a board meeting. I marveled at her detachment—and at how casually she was informing me of her affair.

When I said nothing, she tapped the table.

"Howard, I gave you my liver. You're fully recovered now. Surely you can allow me to give my heart to someone else." She lifted the teacup in front of her. "I can't belong entirely to you, can I?"

The next second, her brow furrowed as she turned to the waitress nearby. "Who told you to pour tea? Didn't the manager tell you I'm pregnant?"

I froze, my mind flashing back to years ago when our parents had urged us to have a child—but Flora's career was on the rise.

To keep her from being distracted, I'd gone to the hospital behind our families' backs and had a vasectomy.

All these years, Flora had been consumed by her work. She rarely came home. Friends teased me for being a lovesick fool.

But then, just a month ago, late at night, Flora had sent me a message. She'd written: "I really want to have your baby. When the time comes, I'll come home and be a devoted wife and mother, okay?"

I'd believed her. That very night, I rushed to the hospital to schedule a reversal surgery.

What I didn't expect was the examination revealing my liver cancer had returned. This time, it was late-stage.

A cascade of complications had left my body too weak to withstand even a simple reversal procedure.

By the time I worked up the courage to tell Flora the truth, I discovered she'd already deleted that message.

It was never meant for me.

My mother had always told me that Flora was a good girl, that marrying her was my blessing. Having children was hard on a woman's body, she'd said. She didn't want to see Flora suffer. If we could go without, then we should.

But now Flora was carrying a child—one that had nothing to do with me.

She was already on her feet.

"Think it over carefully. Our parents are from the same hometown, and all our old classmates are still around. If this blows up, it won't look good for anyone. Don't do anything rash."

With that, Flora walked out of the private room. At the door, she paused to deliver one last remark.

"Lay off the oranges. Your skin's turning yellow."

Flora didn't know I couldn't eat oranges anymore. The yellow she saw wasn't from fruit—it was my body failing from late-stage liver cancer.

I returned home in silence. I found the diary where nineteen-year-old Flora had written: "There are so many people walking their kids around campus! Someday I want to have a baby with Howard too. I've already picked out a name—Gilbert-Simmons."

I picked up a pen and wrote beneath it: "Goodbye, Gilbert-Simmons."

That night, as I was trying to sleep, someone named "Yan" added me on WeChat.

"Howard, what did you say to Flora today? She's been complaining about a headache ever since she got home."

"She's pregnant now. Can you please not upset her?"

So that's how it was. They were the legitimate couple, and I was the shameless homewrecker.

I didn't reply. I just switched off my phone.

I'd been caught in the wind when I went out earlier. The flare-up left my back screaming with pain as I tried to sleep—so bad I couldn't breathe. I downed a few painkillers and didn't wake until well past noon.

Carrie had posted an update.

The headline read: "Business Mogul Simmons and Her Beloved Visit Lover's Peak to Hang a Lovers' Lock."

This time it was a video. Flora holding Basil's hand, the two of them supporting each other as they climbed the stone steps.

My tears fell onto the diary before I could stop them.

The year I was diagnosed with liver cancer, Flora had told me Lover's Peak granted miracles. She wanted to pray for my recovery.

Later, as my condition worsened, she never left my side. She'd held my hand and whispered, "Honey, you're going to be fine. You only get one wish at Lover's Peak in your whole life. I'm saving mine for you."

She'd written about it in this diary. If heaven could grant me one wish, I'd want Howard by my side forever.

I tapped open the photo Carrie had sent me privately.