The Divorce: Happy Birthday to Me

On my 16th birthday, I treat myself to the most delicious cake I can find.

On that day, before I can even take a bite, my parents, who are always at odds with each other, sign their divorce papers right in front of me.

So, on my wedding day, I tell my wife, Keira Jarrett, "If you ever want a divorce, just get me a birthday cake."

She hugs me tightly and promises me."Don't worry. 'Birthday' won't even be a word in our home anymore."

Seven years later, on Keira's birthday, her assistant, Jackson Price, throws her a surprise party. She slaps him across his handsome, gentle face and kicks him out of Jarrett Group.

That day, I am convinced I have chosen the right woman for life.

But three months later, on my birthday, I find out the supposedly fired Jackson has been promoted to Keira's personal secretary.

He personally delivers a custom-made birthday cake to me.

I call Keira to demand an explanation, but her voice on the other end is cold and distant. "Jack meant well. Don't be a spoilsport."

I freeze for a moment, then hang up.

It turns out my parents are right all along. The only way a birthday cake tastes right is when it's served with divorce papers.

Jackson Price left a cake and a prenatal report on the table, then strode out of the room arrogantly.

My eyes lingered on the date of conception, and the silence weighed heavily on me.

Three months ago, when Jarrett Group was at a critical stage in developing a new drug, my wife, Keira Jarrett, told me she had aborted our child for the sake of the company's future.

Yet three months later, Keira was 12 weeks pregnant with another man's child.

While I was chained to the lab night after night, working myself to the bone for that drug, Keira had been bringing Jackson into our home.

Every corner of our home—the couch, the bathroom, the balcony, even under our wedding portrait—had become a stage for their betrayal.

The home I once cherished for its warmth now filled me with nothing but revulsion.

The entryway light flicked on. Keira stumbled inside, the stench of alcohol clinging to her.

Her brow furrowed at the sight of the cake on the dining table, and she wrapped her arms around me from behind.

She held out a watch, her voice soft and tender as always, though the perfume she wore was unmistakably Jackson's favorite.

"Vacher Consta. Their latest model. Do you like it? Oh, it's past midnight," she added quickly. "I guess it's not a birthday present anymore."

My gaze fell on the watch, and I froze. I had never cared much for luxury brands, but this one was burned into my memory.

Jackson had worn the same model earlier today, showing it off like a trophy of his victory over me.

Was this just another of the same model, or the exact one he had worn earlier?