When a Henpecked Man Finally Sees Daylight

Errol's POV

Eight days before our engagement, I stumbled upon an Instagram video of my girlfriend, Sacha Ferguson, with her male best friend, Craig Kinsman. The caption was teasingly cryptic: [There's rain ahead, and he has an umbrella.] In the video, they were dressed in matching outfits, walking side by side beneath a shared umbrella, the chemistry between them undeniable. Against my better judgment, I left a comment: [You two look great together.]

Soon after, the video disappeared, and a drunken Sacha called, accusing me of being petty and once again targeting her male best friend. A few minutes later, Craig posted a picture of them hugging on his feed, the location tagged for all to see. He wanted me to react, to charge over in a jealous rage, and make a scene like I had in the past.

But this time, I didn’t take the bait.

It was already morning when Sacha came back, and I had just finished freshening up by then. The dining table was still set with the dishes I had made, and the unopened bottle of wine was left untouched. Yesterday was my birthday, and she had promised to spend the evening with me. As such, I took the day off and went to the market to buy all her favorite food. When I started cooking the first dish, she told me she was already on her way back home. Yet, she hadn’t shown up until now.

If it weren’t for Craig's post, showing off their cozy evening together, I might have spent the night worrying, imagining her caught in some accident during the mere three-kilometer drive from his place to mine.

“Something came up yesterday, couldn’t make it back. But here’s the cake I got you,” she said with a yawn, tossing a small cake box onto the table like an afterthought. “Let's take a picture, come on. You can post it this time, you know, as a little apology.”

She stretched lazily on the couch, her eyes half-closed, like she was doing me a favor. In the past, I would’ve jumped at the chance to take a photo together, carefully setting the cake and lighting candles, crafting a thoughtful caption for social media. It was a rare privilege, after all. Sacha rarely allowed me to post pictures of us, always claiming that our relationship was private and there was no need for others to get involved as long as we were happy. Over time, those photos had become more of a reward than a shared moment.

But this time, I just looked at her and shook my head. “No need,” I said, my voice even. “If you’re tired, go rest. I’ve got to head to work anyway.”

Her casual smile faltered, her brows knitting into a frown. “Fine! Forget it,” she snapped, glaring as she stood up abruptly. She didn’t storm off right away, though. Instead, after seeing that I was unmoved, she flung her bag at me in a fit of irritation. It hit me hard enough to sting, and with that, she slammed the bedroom door behind her, the sound echoing through the quiet apartment.

I stood there for a moment, watching the remnants of her anger settle. After that, I calmly picked up her bag, returning the scattered contents—her makeup and her phone—to the coffee table. Then I turned back to the table and began clearing away the dishes that had never been touched.

Sacha had this habit of lashing out whenever she knew she was in the wrong. She’d wait for me to make an excuse for her behavior, to apologize for her. Then, graciously, she’d forgive me. It had worked for her countless times, but like any well-worn strategy, it was bound to fail eventually.

As I was gathering the plates to bring them to the kitchen, her phone chimed with a message.

[Craig: Sacha, you left your lipstick in my car’s passenger seat. Want to come get it tonight?]

I didn’t mean to look at it, but the preview flashed on the screen, too obvious to miss. Before I could react, Sacha burst out of the bedroom in a panic. “What are you doing?” she shouted, shoving me roughly aside as she snatched her phone from the table. Caught off balance, I dropped the dishes in my hand. They shattered on the floor, a sharp piece of porcelain slicing deep into my leg.

A small gasp escaped me as blood instantly soaked through my pant leg.

Despite that, Sacha’s face twisted in annoyance, not concern. “That's karma for you. You shouldn’t have been snooping through anyone's phone.”

“I wasn’t snooping, and I’m not blaming you,” I said quietly, pressing a piece of cloth to the wound. But blood seeped through it rapidly; it was deeper than I thought. I might have to go to the hospital in this state.

Realizing the time, I dialed my boss to request a day off as I certainly would not make it in time and needed to rest. On the other hand, Sacha hovered uncertainly nearby before finally offering to take me to the hospital. Since the wound was still bleeding, it wasn't wise to move much, so I didn’t refuse.

With Sacha's help, I limped toward the car and opened the passenger door, only to see a man’s bag sitting prominently on the seat.