The Husband Who Chose Wrong

The rain drummed against our apartment windows as I adjusted the candlelight for the third time, my hands trembling slightly with anticipation. Five years. Five years since Damien had knelt in the rain outside this very building, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, ring box shaking in his hands as he declared I was his entire world.

"Emma," he had whispered that night, rain streaming down his face like tears of joy, "you're everything I never knew I needed. Say you'll be mine forever."

Forever. The word had tasted like honey then, sweet and full of promise.

Now, as I lit the last candle on our anniversary table, I could almost hear the echo of his voice, feel the phantom touch of his lips against mine when I'd said yes. The memory wrapped around me like a warm blanket, pushing away the small voice that had been whispering doubts lately—the late nights, the distant looks, the way he sometimes flinched when I touched him.

I smoothed down my red dress, the one he'd bought me for our first anniversary, and checked my reflection in the hallway mirror. Tonight would be perfect. Tonight would remind us both why we'd fallen so desperately in love.

The small velvet box hidden in my purse seemed to pulse with its own heartbeat. Custom platinum cufflinks, engraved with "Forever Yours" in elegant script. I'd spent weeks designing them, remembering how he always fussed with his shirt cuffs during important meetings. Such a small gesture, but one that said everything I couldn't always find words for.

My phone buzzed—a text from my boss confirming I could leave early. Perfect timing. I grabbed my keys and purse, practically floating out of the office. The surprise would be flawless: dinner ready when he walked through the door, wine breathing, his favorite playlist humming softly in the background.

The elevator ride to our floor felt eternal, my excitement building with each floor we climbed. I fumbled with the lock, eager to transform our living room into something magical, when I heard it—the soft chime of a phone notification from inside.

Strange. Damien should still be at the office.

I pushed open the door, calling out tentatively, "Damien? Are you home early too?"

Silence.

The living room was empty, but there on the cream-colored sofa lay his phone, screen glowing like a beacon in the dim afternoon light. He must have forgotten it in his rush to work. I approached it with the intention of calling him, letting him know I'd found it, when the screen lit up again.

A message notification.

From Sophia.

My heart did a small skip. Sophia, his cousin—the one who'd been calling more frequently lately, the one whose name made him smile in that secretive way that used to be reserved only for me.

The preview text made my blood turn to ice water:

"Baby, I'm already wearing the lingerie you bought. Can't wait for tonight at the hotel."

The phone slipped from my