1. The day I found out Clark was cheating, I was using his phone to identify a song. He and a friend were in a permanent shared listening session. The account name was TessaTheSunflower. In that single, sickening moment, I knew exactly who it was. They had listened to one song, "Flicker in the Dark," for 700 hours. But Tessa had only been in our home for a month. She was our new housekeeper. Bright and bubbly, a little ball of sunshine. And a walking disaster. The day I tried to fire her, she pouted, her face a mask of wounded innocence. "So what if I break a few dishes? Or I’m a terrible cook, or completely useless at housework?" "I make Clark happy," she challenged, her voice dripping with smug certainty. "Can you?" And my husband, Clark, just stood there, a faint, amused smile playing on his lips. In the end, Clark settled it with a dismissive, "Leave it. We can hire people who know how to work." I backed down, defeated. Tessa stayed. Now, I clutched Clark’s phone, my thumb hovering over his message history, unable to bring myself to tap it open. When he walked out of the bathroom, I held the phone out to him. My voice came out as a rasp. “Clark, I need an explanation.” I was desperate for him to explain it away. Even a lie. I just like the music. Anything. Clark just chuckled, a careless, easy sound. He swiped the screen, ending the shared session without a second thought. “Tessa’s… just a bit of fun.” His dark, bottomless eyes locked onto mine. “The problem, Chloe, is that you’ve gotten so bland.” 2. So, the next time he called me bland, I couldn’t stop myself. I grabbed the container of leftover chicken blood from the kitchen and dumped it over his head. “Fresh from the source,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “Need any seasoning?” Clark wiped at the crimson mess on his face with a paper towel, his expression more annoyed than shocked. He frowned at me. “What’s with the drama today?” “You’re cheating on me, Clark,” I stated, the words flat and cold. A laugh rumbled in his chest. “And?” And… I hadn’t thought that far ahead, but the words tumbled out anyway. “And I want a divorce.” I choked back the acidic wave of nausea rising in my throat. “I’m going home.” “Fine,” Clark said, leaning forward slightly and holding out a hand. “Where are the papers?” He agreed so easily, so quickly. As I stared, stunned into silence, a slow, condescending smile spread across his face. “Oh, Chloe, stop this nonsense. You couldn’t leave me if you tried.” “You’re an orphan. What ‘home’ are you going to?” He stood and headed for the bathroom. “And don’t start with that ‘Redemption System’ and ‘other world’ crap again.” “You’re not a kid anymore, Chloe. I don’t have the patience to play these little games with you.” The sound of the shower started, a steady hiss of water. I sat frozen on the sofa. I remembered my first year in this world. I had no ID, no money. My degree, my entire work history from my old life—it was all worthless here. I sold trinkets on the street, set up makeshift stalls, took any cash-in-hand job that would keep me from starving. Then I found Clark on a rooftop, ready to jump. The System appeared for the first time. It gave me a mission: [Save Clark Hawthorne.] I threw all my strength into it, grabbing him by the waist, dragging his leg back over the ledge. Then, I handed him a cup of hot stew from my cart. He ate it with a frown, his handsome eyes sizing me up. “You must own a lot of Hawthorne Industries stock.” I had no idea what he meant. He smirked. “I’m about to die, and you feed me this garbage. What did I ever do to you?” I tried to explain that it was what I sold to make a living. Clark paused. “So, you’re taking your revenge on society?” He complained about the taste, but he drank every last drop of the broth. After that day, Clark moved into my tiny rooftop apartment. I took the bed; he slept on the floor. We’d wake up before dawn to prep ingredients. We’d argue about whose seasoning for the broth was better. He liked it savory and salty. I preferred it tangy and spicy. On evenings so cold our breath turned to frost, we’d stand by the school gates, rubbing our hands together for warmth, selling our stew. After a few months of that, the System finally kicked in. Clark made a fortune on a single stock. Within a year, he had rebuilt Hawthorne Industries from the ashes. In the city of Port Sterling, he was a legend. The day Hawthorne Industries went public, as Clark rang the opening bell at the stock exchange, the Redemption System announced my mission was complete. I had enough points to return to my original world. The night before I was set to leave, I sat alone in our rooftop apartment. The wind howled, and a relentless rain hammered against the corrugated iron roof, the noise so deafening I didn’t hear him come in. Not until a pair of strong, warm arms wrapped around me from behind. “Chloe,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I missed you.” That was the night. The night Clark moved from the floor to the bed. We clung to each other, desperately mapping every inch of each other's bodies, starved for warmth, for connection. In the end, I used my points to buy ten more years in this world. Ten years with him. Through bitter winters and blazing summers. In a world full of noise and people, it felt like we were the only two who mattered. I knew hearts could change, especially in love. I just never thought Clark’s would be one of them. 3. “Chloe, I don’t want things to get ugly.” He stepped out of the bathroom, scrubbed clean of the blood. A towel was slung low on his hips. I could see a few faint, fresh scratch marks just above it. I quickly looked away. “I’ll make it up to you.” He sat down next to me. I turned to look at him. I’d been looking at that face for a decade. From the very first moment it took my breath away until now. Time had been exceptionally kind to him. For a fleeting moment, I remembered our wedding day, the way he looked at me as he said his vows in the old chapel. The words escaped my throat before I could stop them. “‘I, Clark, take you, Chloe, to be my wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part.’” The silence in the room was absolute. After a long moment, Clark let out a soft, low chuckle. “Chloe, don’t be so naive.” He leaned in close, his warm breath ghosting against my cheek. “‘Till death do us part’?” He flicked a piece of lint from his shirt, his voice utterly nonchalant. “That was just possession, darling. A fleeting impulse.” I said nothing. Clark stood up, his shadow falling over me in the fading light. “Alright, let’s just say I was wrong.” “You can have whatever you want as compensation.” “The villa? The jewelry? Shares in the company?” He paused, a self-deprecating smile touching his lips. “Or maybe you want to go find some young boy toy to keep you entertained?” “Chloe, as long as you don’t take it too far, I’ll let you have your fun.” I took a few deep breaths, trying to steady myself, to find my voice. “You like her that much? Enough to…” He cut me off. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to divorce you.” “You’ve been with me for ten years. It hasn’t been easy. I know that.” He turned his back to me, but his voice seemed to drift down from a great height. “You know, she’s a lot like you used to be.” The last sliver of sunlight vanished from the sky, and the vast room was plunged into darkness. Clark’s figure was gone from the floor-to-ceiling window. I curled into a ball on the sofa. I wanted to wipe away my tears. But I found I couldn’t cry. 4. Clark didn’t come home that night. Apparently, Tessa had thrown a fit and run off. The girl had high standards. She’d left a note in the apartment Clark bought for her saying, "I will never be the other woman," and disappeared. Clark spent all night looking for her. Just as the sky began to lighten to a bruised purple, he carried a shivering Tessa through the front door. “Have you completely lost your mind? Don’t you care about your own body?” “Towels! And clothes, now!” he roared, and the household staff scrambled into action. “Chloe,” he ordered, turning to me. “Get her a bowl of ginger soup. Lots of brown sugar, she can’t handle anything spicy.” In the kitchen, our cook, Maria, was already tossing the ingredients into a pot. I stared at the slices of ginger bobbing in the water, a wave of bitter nostalgia washing over me. That first winter, when we were selling stew from our cart, the rooftop apartment was freezing. I had a cold that lingered for days. Clark brewed a huge pot of ginger soup for me. He used five pounds of ginger, concentrating it all into a single, fiery bowl. It made me sweat, but it also scorched my throat, leaving me hoarse for a week. Afterward, I showed him how to make it properly. And just like that, brown sugar ginger soup became a new item on our menu. In the living room, Tessa was nestled in Clark’s arms, pouting. “I only came back with you because I was worried about you, not to be your mistress.” Her eyes darted toward me as I approached with the soup, a triumphant glint in them. “Oh, Mrs. Hawthorne, I’m the housekeeper. You shouldn’t be making things for me.” Clark chuckled, stroking her hair. “It’s fine. She used to sell food from a street cart. She’s not that delicate.” Tessa giggled. “Oh, a street vendor? That explains it. I always thought Mrs. Hawthorne’s taste was a little…” She tilted her head, pretending to think, then smiled with childish innocence. “A little bit country, you know?” The corner of Clark’s mouth twitched upward. As he reached for the bowl, I tilted my wrist and poured the entire contents of boiling hot soup over both of them. Tessa’s shriek ripped through the morning calm. That night, a private jet circled over Port Sterling, and Clark had the city’s top medical specialists “escorted” to the hospital. The commotion he caused became the talk of the town. Hordes of reporters, smelling blood, camped outside the exclusive Hawthorne Private Hospital on the mountain peak. The headlines rolled in, one after another. #HawthorneCEOMarriageOnTheRocks #MistressIdentityExposed #IsItTrueLoveOrATransaction When Clark’s call finally came, I was scrolling through a detailed timeline of his affair with Tessa. The reporters were better than private investigators. They’d dug up all sorts of “romantic” moments between them. With the power of Hawthorne Industries’ PR team, none of this would have seen the light of day unless Clark wanted it to. The stories were trending, and I knew he had given the green light. That explained the threatening call I’d received earlier from his legal department. “Mrs. Hawthorne, the CEO says that if you go to the hospital right now, get on your knees, and beg for forgiveness, he’ll let this go,” the lawyer had said, his voice oozing with arrogance and contempt. Just before I hung up, he added, “Mrs. Hawthorne, the CEO said he doesn’t want to have to use certain… methods on you.” A memory surfaced, sharp and painful. The time we were running our food cart. It was a cold winter night. A group of drunks started causing trouble at our stall. “Hey, pretty girl… you look nice and warm. Spend an hour with each of us, and I’ll give you… this…” Before the crumpled bills even left his hand, Clark, who had just returned, threw a punch. It was him against seven of them. He never stood a chance. The fight only ended when one of them smashed a bottle over his head, and the sight of blood sent the cowards running. As he collapsed, he covered my eyes with his blood-soaked hands. “It’s okay,” he’d whispered. “Don’t be scared.” I stared at my phone screen, where the online discussion was getting more frenzied. A new rumor was trending: Tessa was supposedly pregnant. I laughed bitterly. That one, at least, had to be fake. Clark didn’t like kids. 5. In the end, I was “escorted” to the hospital by Clark’s men. The moment I appeared in the doorway of her room, Tessa shrieked and scrambled behind Clark. “She’s here again! Clark, I’m scared!” So fragile. So pitiful, a delicate flower in need of protection. Clark’s face was grim. “You went too far this time, Chloe.” “Let her hit you back, and we’ll call it even.” The once-empty hallway was now crammed with reporters. Everyone held their breath, cameras raised, ready to capture the shot of the century—the official mistress slapping the original wife. “And if I don’t?” A laugh bubbled up from my chest. “Clark, where in the world is that fair?” “She’s the one who’s a homewrecker, and I’m supposed to be grateful? Welcome her with open arms for destroying my marriage?” “Clark, maybe you two have been acting like animals for so long you’ve forgotten how human society works. Cheating husbands and mistresses are meant to be punished!” Tessa poked her head out from behind him. “How dare you call me a mistress!” she shrieked. “Clark and I are soulmates! He stopped loving you a long time ago! That’s why he wouldn’t even have a child with you!” My mind went blank. Instinct took over. I lunged forward and ripped the surgical mask from Tessa’s face, revealing the blotchy, red-raw skin from the burns. SLAP! The sound echoed in the hallway. My hand moved so fast that my fingernails raked across Clark’s cheek as well, leaving a thin trail of blood. Tessa screamed. The camera flashes were blinding. The headlines shifted again that day. From True Love Affair to Wife Slaps Mistress. I was reading the latest exposé on Tessa and Clark when he came home. He looked exhausted, sinking into the armchair next to me. “Chloe, there’s no point in dragging this out.” I kept scrolling on my phone. “Oh, I think it’s plenty interesting.” I smiled, reading the article aloud. “‘Sources say the Hawthorne CEO orchestrated ‘chance’ encounters with his wife for years. How else could a man going from the corporate headquarters to a downtown market—two completely opposite directions—call it a coincidence every time?’” “If I were a novelist, I’d write you as the secretly devoted second male lead. It’s quite touching.” “Enough!” Clark snapped, his eyes burning with an emotion I couldn’t decipher. As I started to get up, his hand shot out, clamping around my wrist. “She’s pregnant.”
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