Goodbye, CEO Trashbag

On Valentine's Day, I set up a candlelit dinner and waited.

At 9 PM, my husband, Alfred Johnston, finally texted.

[Something came up at work. Don't wait for me.]

Then I saw her post.

[On a business trip with the CEO for Valentine's Day. Every hotel is fully booked—awkward...]

Vivian Bianca, his secretary.

Attached was a photo of a guy in a bathrobe, standing by a floor-to-ceiling window. The comments were all 'ooh, CEO's so hot and girl, you're in for a night.'

Vivian? Just dropped a smug emoji.

So that's what "something came up" meant—a romantic getaway with his secretary.

I screenshotted it, posted it on my own feed, and added a smiling emoji.

A second later, Alfred called, fuming. "Vivian was joking! Why are you so petty? She's young, not as calculating as you!"

I didn't let him finish. "Then let's get a divorce. That way, I won't have to care when you screw around and catch something."

At 2 AM, Alfred finally walked in.

We locked eyes. No one spoke.

His gaze flicked to the untouched candlelit dinner, but guilt? Nowhere to be found. Instead, he scoffed. "It's just a little late. What was the point of that post? You're always so passive-aggressive."

I didn't bother answering.

He tossed a designer shapewear set at me. "Vivian got this for you. Thoughtful, huh? She said if you still won't accept her apology, she'll delete her social media."

I glanced at the tag: 'Enhances Your Best Features.'

Yeah, Vivian knew exactly how to piss me off. I laughed.

Seeing me smile, Alfred thought I was over it and handed me his phone.

"She's being so considerate. Aren't you gonna thank her?"

I ignored him, eyes on the TV.

"Hannah, are you deaf?"

He yanked me up. I lost my balance, crashing to the floor.

Pain shot through my waist as I hit the edge of the table.

It hurt.

That old injury—seven years ago, from the fire. The one where I ran in to save him and got crushed by a falling beam.

I curled up, trembling.

Alfred hesitated. For a split second, guilt flickered across his face.

"I'll get the ointment."

I watched him walk away, wanting to stop him. But I didn't.

The ultrasound report had been sitting in the drawer for three days. The doctor warned me to stay calm in early pregnancy. No stress, no unnecessary meds—especially no topical ointments.

I was supposed to tell Alfred tonight. Valentine's Day. Our family was growing.

But now? What was the point?

He came back fast, digging through the first aid kit—then suddenly froze.

"The ointment is gone. Did I..." His voice trailed off. A flicker of guilt crossed his face.

Then it hit me. Vivian's post.

[He's such a sweetheart. I burned myself while cooking, and he immediately got the ointment for me.]

Before, I might've asked if he gave her my imported ointment. Pressed him for answers.

This time? I just laughed. Tired. Done.

"Forget it,