The Woman I Helped Stole My Life

My face turned pale as I snatched the phone from Cassy’s hands.

"Cassy, what nonsense are you talking about?"

She huffed, crossing her arms. "Dad said I’m a child, and children don’t talk nonsense!"

With that, she spun on her heel and ran off—knocking over the cake I had just set on the table.

The cream smeared across the floor, a sticky, ruined mess.

I stared at it for a moment, the remnants of my daughter’s anger splattered before me, and exhaled a long, tired sigh.

I didn’t understand. Ever since Adele entered our lives, Cassy had changed. My once sweet, sensible daughter had become volatile, lashing out at me in ways she never had before.

I picked up the phone again. "Look at your daughter," I said to Jude.

But he remained unmoved.

"Corinne, this isn’t how you should handle a child. At her age, you need to be patient."

Patient?

Had I not been patient enough?

Did patience mean sacrificing myself—divorcing my husband, stepping aside, letting another woman play mother to my own child?

Jude, Montclaire University professor of literature, always spoke with the air of someone who believed he knew better than everyone else.

Maybe in books, he was wise. But in real life, he was clueless.

I was too exhausted to argue.

I turned around and asked him why he hadn’t picked me up from work today.

A long silence stretched between us before he finally spoke.

"Corinne, you’ve walked that road so many times. You’re not a child who needs someone to pick you up." His tone was indifferent, almost dismissive. "At your age, are you still afraid to go home alone?"

Then, as if it were an afterthought, he added, "I have a seminar here. You should sleep first—I won’t be coming home tonight."

Just as he finished speaking, a faint but sharp moan echoed from his side of the call—hurriedly muffled, but unmistakable.

The sound pierced through me like a needle to my eardrum.

We are all adults. No matter how naive I wanted to be, I wasn’t stupid.

I knew exactly what that sound was.

My heart plummeted.

Tonight, after an exhausting shift, my daughter had scolded me.

My husband had forgotten my birthday.

And now, he was sleeping with another woman.

I stood frozen, staring at the ruined cake on the floor, its cream smeared into a mess—just like the wreckage of my life.

A notification lit up my phone screen.

"Happy Birthday!"

It was from the bank.

I let out a hollow laugh. The only birthday greeting I had received.

Mechanically, I cleaned up the mess, then sank onto the sofa, my body weighed down with exhaustion.

Out of habit, I opened my Instagram feed.

And then I saw it.

Adele’s latest post.

A woman’s slender shoulders leaning against a man’s broad chest—his face intentionally cropped out.

Three live photos. Different locations.

The bathroom. The kitchen. The bedroom.

The caption: "99% progress in the strategy."

My breath caught. My fingers trembled as I clicked on the images.

The moment they loaded, the accompanying sound played—one I could barely stomach.

A man’s heavy, desperate panting.

It was like a bolt of lightning striking my last shred of rationality.

I knew that voice.

I had spent years by Jude’s side—how could I not recognize it?

And when I looked closer, my stomach twisted.

There, on his collarbone, was a distinct dent—one that had never faded since the day he got injured saving me.

The second image was of Adele’s manicured fingers, hooked around his collar, her nails glinting under the light.

My breath turned shallow.

The man who had always been reserved, almost restrained with me, was now utterly unrestrained with someone else.

My hands shook as I zoomed in, desperately searching for proof that it wasn’t him.

But hope was short-lived.

Because on Adele’s finger, I spotted a ring.

A ring that looked painfully familiar.

A few days ago, I had stumbled upon it in Jude’s study drawer.

I had assumed it was a surprise for me—a birthday gift he was waiting to give.

I had spent days looking forward to it, imagining the moment he’d slip it onto my finger.

But now, that ring was on another woman’s hand.

I had been a fool.

A fool who had clung to memories of the past, to the version of him that once worked extra shifts as a deliveryman just to buy me a diamond ring.