Wifey's Infatuation With the Intern

Our third wedding anniversary was coming up, but my wife, a programmer at a major tech company, suddenly claimed she had to work overtime to meet deadlines. She said she couldn't go on the trip we'd planned.

That very afternoon, however, her intern posted a video on social media.

My wife—the same woman who normally wouldn't even open a door for fear of chipping her manicure—was holding a screwdriver, repairing an old flip phone.

The caption read: [Having a programmer wife is the best. Even when Grandma's phone breaks, we don't need to pay for repairs.]

I chuckled, liked the post, and commented: [Right up her alley.]

Within minutes, the company group chat exploded. There were over ninety-nine unread messages speculating on when I'd finally snap.

Not long after, my wife called. Her voice was ice-cold.

"What was that comment supposed to mean? How is Shawn supposed to face anyone at work now?

"His grandma's phone broke, so I fixed it. What's the problem? Your parents have always spoiled you. You can't possibly understand real hardship.

"Delete the comment. I'll make it up to you over the New Year; we can take that trip then."

The New Year? I'd already waited through two other major public holidays. I'd even taken special leave for this trip, and she still bailed. Now she was dangling empty promises again?

I hung up on her.

My leave ended around the same time as our divorce cooling-off period.

The moment I hung up, my phone started ringing again, over and over.

After declining more than a dozen calls, my patience snapped. I blocked and deleted Lisa Blakely.

Three years of marriage, I'd always bent over backward for Lisa. This was the first time I'd refused to answer her call.

"Mr. Hunter, your wedding anniversary photo package is ready. Will your wife be arriving soon?"

I glanced at the white wedding gown hanging neatly pressed on the rack.

"She won't be coming. Switch it to a singlehood celebration theme instead."

Ignoring the makeup artist's sympathetic gaze, I looked down at my phone, still buzzing with notifications.

The intern, Shawn Peterson, had tagged everyone in the company group chat: [The video I posted earlier was just a joke, please don't misunderstand!]

That wasn't an explanation—it was a boast.

I sneered.

Right after, Lisa chimed in: [No need to explain, Shawn. Everyone can see you were joking. Only narrow-minded people would take it the wrong way.]

With the boss leading the way, colleagues rushed to show loyalty.

[Yeah, we all knew you were joking, no need to clarify.]

[Just explain it to someone directly. Only one person here can't take a joke.]

Anyone with eyes could see who the boss favored.

So even though they knew I was the one being humiliated, my coworkers fell over themselves to side with Shawn, trampling on me just to curry favor.

Even the employees I'd personally mentored abandoned all dignity, fawning over him shamelessly.

Why wouldn't they? Lisa was the company's founder, and Shawn was her darling.

And me? The husband who had built everything with her from scratch—just a lovesick fool clinging to illusions.

I flipped my phone face down, unwilling to watch the sycophants grovel any longer.

I had barely taken a few shots when Aaron Cole's urgent call came through.

"Grayson! The custom firewall code for Acestar is a total mess. It's full of bugs and won't even run. The client just showed up at the office demanding answers!"

My brow furrowed. "That's Shawn's project. Why are you calling me?"

"I know! But Ms. Blakely said the kid is a little careless, and asked if you could tidy it up."

I was speechless.

That project was highly complex. I'd warned Lisa from the start that Shawn couldn't handle it. She insisted on letting him "practice."

Now that it had blown up, suddenly they remembered me.

"If Shawn's careless, then he should review it carefully. If the client gets angry, let Ms. Blakely handle it. Everything should go through official company procedures."

I hung up before Aaron could say another word.

'What a joke—she pampers her pet intern, he screws up, and then I'm expected to clean up his mess and rewrite the codes for him? Not a chance.'

Scowling, I let the photographer click away, capturing shot after shot of me with a cold, ruthless edge.

But barely ten minutes later, Lisa's secretary rushed in, phone in hand.

"Grayson, Ms. Blakely wants to speak with you."

'Unbelievable! She actually sent her secretary to track me down.'

I snatched the phone, irritation simmering. On the other end, Lisa's voice trembled with fury as she tried to suppress her rage.

"Grayson, don't push me too far! Shawn never provoked you. Are you trying to humiliate him… or me?"