1 “So white, the clothes. So much whiter, the person.” “Next time, don't even bother with underwear. Makes things easier for laundry.” I stared at my wife's WhatsApp, unable to process the words. The contact name seared my eyes: "Julian Hillner." Her ex-husband. I slammed my phone down. My wife, Kathy, flinched, startled. “Darling, let me explain, his hand is hurt, and there’s no one to look after him…” I pointed a finger at her. “His hand is hurt?” “For three years of our marriage, you wouldn’t even press a button on the washing machine, claiming it would chip your manicure.” “And now you’re at your ex’s place, hand-washing clothes? For a whole night?” “Darling, why are you so mad?” She bent to pick up her bag, her eyes darting to the coffee table. I took two swift steps, planting my foot firmly on the bag. “Don’t touch it.” “Darling…” “What happened to Julian’s hand?” Kathy’s face went instantly pale. She instinctively clutched her throat, her gaze flickering nervously. “He… he fractured his hand.” “A comminuted fracture, no one to care for him, couldn’t even pull up his pants.” “I just felt sorry for him, so I went to help out.” “Help out?” My lips twisted into a sneer. I bent down and picked up the bag. A Gucci overnight bag, bulging. “Need this thing to ‘help out’?” “Give it to me!” Kathy shrieked, lunging to grab it. I sidestepped her, gripped the zipper, and yanked it open. Whoosh. A pile of items tumbled onto the coffee table. A black lace lingerie set. Half a bottle of lube. And a pair of freshly discarded nude stockings. The air solidified instantly. I recognized that lingerie set. For our anniversary, I’d begged her for half a month, just to see her wear it once. She’d claimed the fabric was scratchy, that she was allergic, refused to wear it for anything. Now, that "scratchy" lingerie lay before me. It reeked of cheap cologne mixed with disinfectant. Pungent. Disgusting. I snatched the lace and flung it at her face. “This is your ‘help’?” “Going to your ex’s place to wash clothes, and bringing your own lube?” “Were you washing clothes, or acting as an automated ‘wash-and-wear’ service?” Kathy tore off the lingerie, tears instantly gushing. “Leo! Don’t talk like that!” “He’s sick! He can’t move!” “I wore this because… because…” “Because what?” I took a step closer, staring at her neck. A patch of concealer had rubbed off. Revealing a dark red mark. A hickey. “Because this thing cures broken bones?” I reached out to wipe at the concealer. Kathy slapped my hand away, then collapsed onto the floor, sobbing uncontrollably. “You’re just petty! You have no sympathy!” “We’re divorced, what else could there be?” “If I wanted something with him, why would I have married you in the first place?” “He’s lying there, can’t move, and you’re still slandering me!” Can’t move? I sneered, casting my phone screen to the 65-inch TV. A screenshot of game stats appeared. ID: "The Swift Serpent." That was Julian’s gaming account. I’d been sleepless last night, using a secondary account to monitor his profile. The stats showed: 2 AM last night, ranked match MVP. Hero used: "The Blademaster." Fastest hands on the field, most dazzling plays. “This is your ‘comminuted fracture’?” I pointed at the "Penta Kill" icon on the screen. “At 2 AM, he was slaughtering the competition.” “And you were ‘washing clothes’ in his bed.” “Kathy, do you think I’m blind, or just plain stupid?” Kathy looked up at the screen, her lips trembling. “Th-this… this was a booster playing for him!” “Yes! A booster!” “Leo, why do you have to be so dark?” “I’ve been frugal for this family, and you’re here investigating my ex?” Frugal? I laughed, a bitter, hollow sound. 2 I tapped open her shopping history on the Aethelred Market app. Australian Wagyu A9, two hundred dollars a pound. Deep-sea wild sea cucumber, five hundred dollars a box. Boston lobster, extra-large. The delivery address was always the same: Apartment 402, Building 3, Serenity Lane. That was Julian’s rented place. And what had I eaten last night? Instant noodles, without even an egg. In three years of marriage, she had never once cooked. Claiming cooking fumes ruined her skin, and dish soap hurt her hands. I washed all the dishes, mopped all the floors. All to protect those manicures of hers, which cost eighty dollars a pop. I grabbed her hand. The long, rhinestone-studded nails were now clipped short and bare. There was still unwashed grease on her fingertips. “You clipped your nails to cook for him?” “You don’t mind roughing up your hands to wash his underwear?” “Kathy, you truly are a wonderful wife.” I flung her hand away. Kathy stumbled, hitting the sofa leg. She dropped the act entirely, scrambling up from the floor, yelling defiantly. “Yes! I did go to take care of him! So what?” “A bond forged in marriage lasts a lifetime!” “He’s in trouble, how could I just stand by and watch him suffer?” “You make tens of thousands a month, what’s wrong with sharing a bit to help him out?” “Leo, you need to be more generous!” “What kind of man nitpicks over such trivial things?” Generous. Help him out. I looked at the woman before me. For three years, I’d thought she was delicate, a little princess who needed pampering. Turns out, she wasn't incapable of doing things. She just reserved her efforts for other men. My stomach churned, a wave of pure, visceral disgust. “Get out.” I pointed at the door. “Take your lube, and get out.” Kathy froze. Before, if she cried, I’d immediately comfort her. Even when she gave my limited-edition collectibles to a relative's child, I never spoke harshly. But today, the icy chill in my eyes frightened her. “Leo, you dare kick me out?” “Don’t you dare regret this!” “I’m leaving right now! I’m going to Elara’s place!” She grabbed her bag from the floor, shoving the lingerie in haphazardly. Then slammed the door behind her. Elara’s place? I walked to the balcony, watching her red BMW X3 drive out of the complex. The direction was clearly not towards her friend’s house. It was heading straight for Serenity Lane. Julian’s place. I pulled out a cigarette and lit it. My hand was shaking. Not from sadness, but from fury. And the humiliation of being played for a fool for three years. I turned and walked into the bedroom. Locked the door. That night, I didn't sleep. I was checking her finances. And what I found chilled me to the bone. The next morning. The living room was eerily silent. I stared at the bank statements on my phone, my eyes bloodshot. Kathy hadn’t come home last night. I hadn’t called her either. This card was the household card I’d given her, linked to my secondary account. Every month, I transferred two thousand dollars for living expenses. For three years, I had never checked the statements. Because of trust. Now, that trust had become a slap to the face. On the first of every month. There was a fixed transfer of five hundred dollars. The recipient's note was "Belle Beauty Salon." But I checked the verified name on the payment app. The account belonged to "Juli*." Julian. Three years, thirty-six months. This single, fixed expense alone amounted to eighteen thousand dollars. And that was just the small stuff. Various fragmented transfers, payments, gift money. There were even several large cash withdrawals. In total, she had transferred at least forty thousand dollars over these three years. Forty thousand. I had hesitated for half a year before buying a new car. She transferred money to her ex without a second thought. 3 I stood up and walked to the walk-in closet. It was Kathy’s sanctuary, usually off-limits to me. A whole wall of glass display cabinets. Filled with various designer bags. Hermès, Chanel, Louis Vuitton. All gifts I’d bought her over the past three years for holidays and anniversaries. Each one was worth a fortune. I opened the cabinet door and picked up the Hermès Picnic Bag in the center. Elephant grey, gold hardware. I’d given it to her for our anniversary last year, costing me well over five thousand dollars. The feel was off. Too stiff. The pebbled leather texture felt fake. I turned on my phone’s flashlight, set it to macro mode. Took a picture of the embossed logo on the bag. Then searched online for genuine comparison images. No need for expert appraisal. Blatantly fake. The edges of the "H" in the font were all fuzzy. I picked up the Chanel CF next to it. The chain was light, almost faded. Fake. All fake. The three Hermès, two Chanel bags displayed in the cabinet. All high-quality replicas. Where were the real bags? I downloaded a pre-owned luxury goods trading app. Entered Kathy's phone number to search for users. Sure enough. Account ID: "KathyLovesLife." The homepage was filled with "sold" listings. "99% new Hermès Picnic Bag, urgent sale, with receipt." "Chanel CF Medium, only carried once, bargain price." All transactions took place within a month of me giving her the gifts. The total transaction amount? Another thirty thousand dollars. She sold the real bags, bought fakes to display at home to fool me. Where did the money go? Where did the money go? I clicked on a screenshot of the account's withdrawal records (she’d posted it in the comments). The last four digits of the recipient card were 8888. That wasn't Kathy's card. I entered the card number into my online banking transfer interface. The system automatically displayed the recipient's name: "Juli*." Julian again. I threw my phone onto the bed, covering my face with both hands. A guttural roar escaped my throat. The person was his. The money was his too. What was I? A money-making machine? Or a chump helping someone else raise his wife? Just then, my phone vibrated. It was a push notification from the Highway Pass app. "Your vehicle, State Plate A*****, passed through the airport highway toll station at 08:30 AM." That was the BMW X3 Kathy was driving. Airport highway? What was she doing at the airport? Was she trying to run away? I immediately opened the vehicle tracking app. The car wasn't at the airport. It had stopped at a high-end private orthopedic hospital near the airport. It was the most expensive rehabilitation hospital in the city. A single night's stay started at three hundred dollars. I remembered what Kathy had said last night. "His hand is hurt, and there’s no one to look after him." Turns out, "no one to look after him" meant staying in a VIP suite, eating Australian Wagyu, and enjoying "special care" from his ex-wife. And all of this cost. Was coming out of my pocket. I grabbed my car keys and rushed out of the house. In the garage, there was still a six-year-old Sedan. That was my car. The BMW was hers to drive, because she said driving an old car to gatherings was embarrassing. I started the car, pedal to the metal. Just then. My phone vibrated. A credit card transaction alert. ["Your credit card ending in 8888 has been charged $5,200 at Aesthetic Beauty Clinic."] Immediately after. Julian sent me a photo. In the photo, he lay on a wide hospital bed. His left hand was in a cast, his right hand holding up his phone for a selfie. In the background, Kathy was bending over, feeding him grapes. Her neckline was low, revealing a flash of white skin. That was my wife. The caption was just one sentence: "Nothing beats the original; some people are only good for paying." I stared at that photo. Blood rushed backward, surging to my scalp. Fifty-two hundred. 4 Aesthetic clinic. Was she using my money to get her ex plastic surgery? Or some other unspeakable procedure? My in-laws were still chattering away. “Leo, don’t be too bothered.” “You’re a man, be more magnanimous.” “Kathy and Julian are ancient history, isn’t she doing just fine with you now?” I looked at their opening and closing mouths. Like two blood-sucking black holes. I didn't erupt. Nor did I flip the table. I calmly pressed the screenshot button. Saved the message, saved the photo. Then slowly gathered the bank statements from the coffee table, folded them neatly, and put them in my pocket. Since you’re treating me like "family," Then this "grand gift." I’ll repay it with interest. I left my in-laws’ house and sat in my car, smoking three cigarettes. My phone vibrated again. It was a WhatsApp message from Kathy. “Darling, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have lost my temper with you.” “I reflected on it all night at Elara’s place.” “That money… I lent it to a friend in urgent need, they’ll pay it back in a few days.” “Please don’t be mad, okay?” Fifty-two hundred. Friend in urgent need. She couldn’t even bother to come up with a better lie. I looked at the screen, a cold smile twisting my lips. My fingers tapped on the keyboard. “It’s fine, darling. Tell me if you need more money.” “Don’t make yourself suffer.” “I’m away on a business trip, I’ll be back in a couple of days.” After sending that message. I tossed my phone onto the passenger seat. If we’re going to act, let’s go all in. I want them to know what it’s like to invite trouble and then try to get rid of it. That afternoon. I told Kathy to stay at her parents' or Elara's place for a few days, not to come home yet. Kathy was more than happy to. She was currently busy acting as a full-time caregiver at the hospital, with no time to come home anyway. Seizing the opportunity. I bought a bunch of miniature pinhole cameras. Replaced the old ones with new ones that had remote cloud storage. After doing all that. I moved all my valuables—my watch, emergency cash, the house deed—to my parents' place. Then, I set a daily limit on Kathy's secondary card. A hundred dollars a day. Couldn't block the card entirely, that would alert them. It had to be like boiling a frog slowly, gradually bringing the water to a boil. I opened the phone monitoring app. On the screen, the front door of our home opened. Kathy entered, helping Julian. Julian's arm still had a cast, but his movements weren't slow at all. He even managed to free one hand to squeeze Kathy's butt. “So this is the house that idiot bought?” Julian looked around the living room, a look of disdain on his face. “The decor is so tacky, reeks of new money.” Kathy smiled as she helped him change shoes. She was using my slippers. “Just bear with it, he’s on a business trip anyway, so it’s ours for now.” “You can recover here for a few days, I’ll make you delicious food.” “Once you pay off those tens of thousands in gambling debts, I’ll divorce him.” “And I’ll get half of this house too.” The voice recorder faithfully captured every word. Every word was like a nail, driven into my eardrums. Julian wrapped an arm around Kathy’s waist. Pushing her onto the sofa… I turned off the screen. No need to watch anymore. The evidence was already enough to ruin their reputations. I picked up the hotel phone and dialed the bank’s customer service. “Hello, I’d like to report all my credit cards lost.” “Yes, all of them.” “Reason? They’ve been fraudulently used.” On the monitor. Julian, who was about to order takeout, suddenly cursed. “Damn it, why can’t I pay?” Kathy picked up her phone and looked. “Maybe there’s a limit, I’ll try another card.” She tried another card. “That one doesn’t work either… what’s going on?” … The show, had only just begun. I looked out at the night sky. My gaze colder than the night itself. Julian, Kathy. Since you love money so much. Then I’ll let you taste what it’s like to have none. And what it’s like to be driven mad by debt.
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