Chapter 5

He chuckled mockingly, his gaze drifting idly along Jennifer's exposed leg, visible beneath her knee-high boots.

"You think that's remarkable? Just wait—the best is yet to come."

The supervisor licked his lips, clearly envious.

"Once I reach your status, I'm going to have a hundred just like her!"

"Though I must say, your wife's quite the looker too. Even without cosmetics, she's a real beauty."

The moment the supervisor mentioned me, Heather's expression turned stern.

"Don't you dare lay a finger on my wife! Unless you're prepared to lose everything!"

The supervisor hastily backpedaled, bobbing his head and stuttering apologies, vowing to keep me in the dark about everything.

But at this point, I couldn't care less.

I spun around and dashed off, desperate to escape, only to collide with a courier rushing in with packages.

"Mrs. Walsh—"

"Quiet!" I interrupted. "Don't tell anyone you saw me! Unless you want to be jobless!"

I can't recall how I made it back home. When I finally regained awareness, I was already standing at the entrance.

One of my shoes was gone, and I looked disheveled.

Checking the time, I realized eight hours had passed since the photoshoot began.

I hurried to the nearest mini-mart and bought every bottle of liquor they had.

After paying, I stepped out—and as if fate wasn't finished tormenting me, I bumped into my husband's lover.

The way her eyes sparkled when she spotted me—ugh. That conceited little glint.

But her words? Sickeningly sweet.

"Oh my goodness, you're Mrs. Walsh, aren't you? I've been such a huge admirer of yours forever! I even sent presents during your wedding broadcast! I can't believe we're neighbors!"

"You know, I used to be so envious of your romance. I mean, who wouldn't want a husband like yours? And guess what? My wish came true!"

She tittered, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear in this phony, naive manner.

Her voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper as if we were close friends sharing secrets.

"My flat here? It's a gift from him—basically just a little 'welcome' present, you know?"

"Anyway, hey, can I follow you on IG? We should totally get together sometime—maybe get facials or something!"

I didn't want to let her see me crumble, so I kept my expression neutral and showed her my username.

After adding me, she linked her arm with mine as if we were best friends. As if it were a joke, I walked into the neighborhood with my husband's mistress.

She prattled on in my ear, talking about how her boyfriend gave her an apartment, a company, and even scripts written exclusively for her.

I just nodded along. Finally, at my front door, I managed to break free, muttering a quick farewell before shutting myself inside.

The moment I was alone, I opened a few bottles of alcohol, hoping to drink myself into oblivion.

But it wasn't long before my phone buzzed with a message. From her.

[Hey, Shannon, are you fond of roses? Today's shoot went brilliantly, and my boyfriend says he's buying every rose in the city to celebrate! That's a lot, right? I can send some your way if you'd like!]

I stared at that brazen message for a moment before deleting it without responding.

By the time Heather arrived home, I'd already consumed quite a bit of alcohol.

He halted in the doorway, his eyes wide. He didn't even remove his shoes, just rushed to the kitchen to prepare some hangover soup for me.

I grabbed his hand as he passed by and pulled him toward me like a petulant child.

"Honey, I want roses. Can you get me some? Like right now."

He let out a chuckle. But his eyes—they were vacant.

"Why the sudden interest in flowers? Can I get them for you tomorrow, sweetheart? I've got so much work tonight, you know?"

"Did you drink too much?"

Tears welled up in my eyes as I shook my head bitterly.

"You can't, can you? Oh well, forget it. Go ahead finish your work."

"Honey, what's wrong? Didn't you sleep well last night? How about you turn in early tonight? I'll make you soup for your hangover first, but after that, I really need to get back to the office."

He kept asking me what was wrong, but I didn't utter another word.

What was the point? Nothing I said would make any difference.

He watched me sip the hangover soup he prepared, and then just like that, he left me alone without a word.