The Night I Caught Him Cheating on Me

My husband has always preferred black and gray, so I was surprised to find a pink pair of underwear suddenly appear in our closet.

“Did you see it?” he asked, a little too casually.

I took the underwear to the bathroom door, waiting for him to take it, but he just looked at it and said, “Change it to black.”

I figured it might just be a free gift from a recent purchase. But then his phone, left outside the bathroom door, lit up with a message:

["Pink couple’s style—think it suits you, Bob?"]

And his reply was right there: "I’ll know when you wear it for me."

——

Before I could process, Bobby nudged me away.

“The water’s cold—come back in a bit,” he said, snapping the door shut.

The lock clicked.

I couldn’t tell if I was overthinking things… or if Bobby was hiding something.

We had our marriage certificate, and everything seemed to be moving in the right direction. But he had become more irritable with me lately, especially this year, as I left early and returned home late every day.

Then, his phone lit up.

A message from a girl named Helena appeared on the screen—a closeup video of her chest. Her skin was fair, a red mole visible, and a thin metal chain glinted against her skin as her chest rose and fell.

["Does it look good, Bob?"]

["Bet she doesn't give you this much fun, right? Can't wait for you to take it off… with your mouth."]

["Just like… last time."]

A buzzing filled my head, and the world blurred as I stared at the floor, my mind reeling, trying to keep my balance.

I leaned against the window, lost in thought. The room was dark; I hadn’t bothered to turn on the lights.

When Bobby came in, he didn’t even notice me at first. His fingers brushed against me, and he immediately pulled back, as if surprised by my presence—or avoiding it.

Since when had he grown so distant?

“Why don’t you turn on the light?” he asked, flicking on the bedside lamp.

The soft amber glow lit his face, and I noticed a faint, sweet scent lingering on him, fresh and unfamiliar.

"I don’t remember us changing the shower gel," I said, unable to hide my curiosity.

He paused midmotion, his hand still in his hair, before finally replying, “You should try it too.”

The fragrance was… youthful, almost playful—something that belonged to a man in his twenties. It carried a naive energy, tinged with something unspoken. Bobby might not even have noticed, but his mouth curved ever so slightly when he mentioned the shower gel.

“I got up early and moved to the guest room,” he said abruptly, reaching for a pillow.

I grabbed his arm desperately. “Let’s stay here tonight.”

He hesitated, his arm trembling slightly under my touch.

“I’m afraid you won’t sleep well,” he replied softly—the same excuse he’d used for a year now. Before I could respond, Bobby pulled away, clutching his pillow as he hurried toward the door, so preoccupied he left his phone behind.

Another message flashed from Helena.

["Did you make it to the guest room? You’re not going to hold her, are you?"]

He had replied: ["No, you know we don’t feel anything for each other anymore."]

Then came her response: ["Then, Bob, video call me later? I got a new chest chain. It’s beautiful."]

I took a shaky breath, running my fingers through my hair, trying to make sense of it all. This was the man who, the day we got our marriage certificate, celebrated by booking every restaurant in the city. Three years ago, he proposed with so much anxiety he joked he’d need an oxygen tank just to get through it. He’d held my hands, promised, “If I ever change my heart, I’ll swallow a thousand needles.”

That promise had been enough for me to say yes, without a second thought. For years, I’d believed in us.

He came back to retrieve his phone. “I forgot this—go to bed early,” he mumbled.

“Bobby,” I called softly.

But he didn’t look up, his attention already lost to the screen in his hands.

He kept tapping on his phone, barely noticing me.

“Bobby.”

He stopped, finally turning to look at me.

“When are we going to have the church wedding, Bobby?”

A flicker of panic crossed his face before he forced a smile. “Nicole, be patient, okay? I’m really busy right now. Once things settle down, we’ll do it.”

But he didn’t realize how forced that smile looked, how hollow his words sounded.

“I’ve been waiting a year for this wedding,” I said softly.

He stayed silent, his gaze shifting away.

“Bobby… are you still planning to marry me?”

He hesitated. “Nicole, I’m just… really tired tonight.”

“Are you just tired tonight, or… tired of being with me?”

His hand tightened around the doorframe, but he didn’t answer.

I couldn’t tell if I’d guessed correctly or if he was just holding back his frustration. For ten long seconds, we stood in silence. I stared at his broad back, feeling a strange detachment creep over me.

Was this the same Bobby I’d known seven years ago?

He finally closed the door and, in a rare move, lay down beside me. He reached over, gently rubbing my head—a gesture that felt both deliberate and distant.

“Nicole, what’s on your mind?” he asked softly.

I looked at him, expressionless, feeling the weight of everything left unsaid. I wanted to stay in this moment, to cling to the comfort of pretending, as if I didn’t know the truth lurking between us. But the memory of their messages flashed in my mind, and instinctively, I pushed him away.

He looked at me, shocked. Normally, I’d melt into his arms, eager to tell him about my day in that playful, teasing way he always loved. But now, a wall had formed between us, one I didn’t know how to dismantle.

In a rare show of tenderness, he wrapped his arms around me and pressed a kiss on my forehead.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I’ve neglected you lately.”

Bobby’s phone kept buzzing, his fingers twitching toward the screen. Just as he was about to reply, I reached out and held his hand. For some reason, he gestured to his mouth, a flicker of discomfort in his eyes. In the dim light, his expression was hard to read, and for a moment, I wished I could see him more clearly—to know if any trace of guilt crossed his face.

He leaned in to kiss me, but his lips barely brushed mine, held tight, as though he couldn’t bear to linger. He pulled back immediately. I let out a bitter laugh, realizing how easily he mistook my sadness for a forgiving smile.

“Nicole, be good,” he murmured, gently.

I nodded, my throat thick with tears I could barely suppress. “Go to sleep,” I whispered, turning away.

As I shifted, I caught the sound of his quiet sigh, one of relief, as though he had just passed through a storm. The tears finally spilled, silently falling as I lay there, wide awake, through the night.

I listened to the soft taps of his typing. Near dawn, I heard the faint hum of a video call.

“Bob…” came her voice, sounding fragile and hurt, laced with a practiced sweetness that cut through the dark room.

I felt Bobby’s gaze on me and quickly closed my eyes, feigning sleep. He hesitated, then, believing I was asleep, he let his guard down. It was past three in the morning, and the quiet confidence in his voice stung.

“Bob, you promised me you'd only hold her, not touch me anymore,” her voice whined softly through the call.

“We’re very far apart,” he reassured her gently.

“I don’t believe you! Show me, show me how far you are!”

There was a gentleness in his voice I hadn’t heard in so long. I didn’t turn around, but I could feel him move, shifting the quilt between us. The chill crept across my back, and I bit down hard, forcing myself to stay still, to keep my shoulders from betraying my shaking heart.

"It's still too close," she insisted. "You can move further away."

"Okay," he agreed, without hesitation, as he always did with her.

I knew everything about Bobby—his routine from answering the phone, getting out of bed, to showering, and leaving. But now, it all feels suffocating. Our home, which should have been a sanctuary, had become a prison, binding us in ways I hadn’t expected.

Exhausted, I dragged myself out of bed, only to receive a message from the Evans Family’s old house. Bobby’s father was celebrating his birthday.

I sent him a message, but of course, there was no reply.

"Nicole, where’s Bobby? Why didn’t you come together?" My mother asked, her voice warm yet curious.

"Mom, Bobby…" I hesitated, unsure of what to say. I had half a mind to go alone, but then, to my surprise, Bobby appeared.

He had stayed in my bed last night, but I knew the girl was upset with him. He would have to spend hours pacifying her again.

"Mom," I heard Bobby’s voice behind me, soft yet unmistakable.

My motherinlaw paused, clearly surprised, before glancing at me several times. I turned to greet Bobby, trying to mask my thoughts.

"I didn’t think you would..." I started, but my words caught in my throat when I noticed the woman standing next to him. My stomach twisted as I swallowed what I’d planned to say. How could he have brought her along so casually? Was this how he intended to handle it—by keeping her in the open?

"Who is this…?" My motherinlaw asked, eyeing the woman with curiosity.

"Mom, this is an intern from the company," Bobby explained smoothly, his tone casual but with an underlying layer of something I couldn’t quite place. "I heard Dad was having his birthday, and she wanted to come by to see the scene."

My motherinlaw’s expression softened somewhat, but she was far from fooled. As someone who had been through her share of experiences, she could undoubtedly sense the tenderness in Bobby’s gaze when he looked at her.

"Hello, Mrs. Evans," the woman greeted, her voice identical to the one I had heard over the phone. She spoke in a soft, almost deferential tone, her eyes lowered in what appeared to be modesty.

"Hello, Mrs. Evans," she repeated, her voice carrying a sweetness that felt too practiced.

"You’re very beautiful," she added with a polite smile, her eyes lingering briefly on me. "And the perfume you’re wearing... it smells wonderful."

"Thank you, Mrs. Evans," the woman replied, her tone almost saccharine. "But this isn’t perfume, it’s actually shower gel. Since you like it, I’ll give you two bottles next time. I wouldn’t want to disturb you and Mr. Evans, so I’ll go ahead and join the others."

I didn't respond, letting her drift to the side. Bobby, as if suddenly reminded of something, awkwardly scratched his nose.

"She’s a new business assistant at the company," he explained, though the explanation felt more like an afterthought. "They think highly of her, so they brought her here to meet with the partners. It’s part of her training."

I glanced at Bobby but said nothing. "You don’t need to explain to me," I said flatly, turning away and sitting back down. The girl had already retreated to a corner, her eyes glued to her phone, but I could sense her growing restlessness.

Coincidentally, Bobby’s phone, which was placed next to her, began vibrating again. Her eyes flickered nervously in our direction, her fingers fidgeting at the screen. She was so on edge it seemed as though she might cry at any moment.

Trying to ignore the discomfort, my motherinlaw leaned over and took my hand, her voice gentle yet persistent. "Nicole, Bobby has been so busy lately. I’ll ask his father to choose an auspicious date for the wedding soon. Do you think you and Bobby can decide on one?"

Bobby looked up from his phone, his focus shifting toward the conversation. I smiled, trying to keep the tone light, though my heart wasn’t in it. "No rush. Let’s wait and see."

Bobby’s gaze lingered on me, and I could sense his frustration, even though he didn’t say anything. His eyes were sharp, filled with a mixture of disbelief and something deeper I couldn’t quite place.

I couldn’t help but wonder: was I wrong? Wasn't this what he wanted to hear?

"Oh?" My motherinlaw pressed, sensing the tension in the air. "Why not hurry? Let me find my husband to pick the date. Bobby, what do you think?"

Bobby glanced at his phone again, his expression unreadable. The question clearly annoyed him—this was a topic he’d never been fond of. But what came next surprised me.

"Okay," he said flatly, his voice was void of any emotion. It was just a single word, but it carried the weight of an unspoken distance between us.

I gently held my motherinlaw's hand, trying to soften the tension. "Mom, it's okay. The company’s more important right now. If Bobby is caught up with work, maybe we should... just forget about the wedding for now."

As soon as the words left my mouth, I felt the eyes of the relatives and wives around me all turn in my direction—anxious, waiting for something. Even Bobby’s gaze was intense, full of frustration and hesitation, as if he was on the edge of saying something he’d regret.

My motherinlaw looked at me, her expression tinged with concern.

"Don’t worry, I will take care of the wedding," she said gently.

I fell silent, unwilling to push the matter any further in front of everyone. This was supposed to be a peaceful gathering over tea, not a battleground. But then, Bobby's voice broke the tension.

"She doesn’t want to get married. Why are you all so insistent? A wedding doesn’t even matter that much."

His words hung in the air, as I expected nothing less from him. But my motherinlaw’s face twisted in fury, her eyes flashing with anger. The wives around us, sensing the growing storm, quickly backed away, leaving an uncomfortable silence in the room.

As soon as they were gone, my motherinlaw snapped, her fist landing on Bobby’s chest with a sharp thud.

"Bobby, what’s your problem? If you don’t want to get married, just say it!"

I could feel my hands clench into fists. Though I knew how this would end, my heart raced, betraying the anxiety I still couldn’t shake.

Bobby glanced at me, his eyelids lifting in quiet annoyance.

"Didn't she refuse you again and again?" His voice was laced with frustration.

Without warning, he seized my wrist, his grip firm. "I can explain the whole Helena situation to you. Why are you still making a fuss?"

His impatience flared, his tone grew colder. "Is it really because of that girl? You’re willing to throw everything away, including our wedding, over this?"

I felt my cheeks burn with the sting of his words, but I couldn’t find my voice to respond. My throat tightened, my thoughts scattered. Yet, despite the turmoil in my chest, he was determined to push things forward.

"Then I’ll make her leave," he said flatly.

He raised his hand to signal the bodyguard, but I quickly stepped in, shaking my head. "No need."

"I just... don’t want you to be too exhausted," I murmured, my voice softer than I intended.

His expression shifted slightly, the edge of his impatience melting into something gentler. His gaze softened as he considered my words.

Meanwhile, my motherinlaw, who had been anxiously pacing between us, suddenly broke the tension with a hearty laugh.

"Oh! So, you two had a little argument, huh?" she teased, her voice light and cheerful. "You two kids! Always fighting at the head of the bed, then making up at the foot of it!" She laughed again, shaking her head. "Don’t worry about the wedding. Leave it to me!"

With that, she flashed a smile and walked off, her cheerful energy lingering in the air.

Bobby, now called away by his brother, gave me one last look before he followed.

I sat there, utterly exhausted, staring at Bobby’s retreating back. The more I watched him leave, the less I seemed to understand him. Was this marriage even still going to happen?

As the minutes passed, businessmen began to approach, offering toasts and congratulations. I wasn’t in the mood to drink, but I accepted the glasses out of politeness, trying to push aside the confusion gnawing at me. He still hadn’t replied to the message I sent him.

I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself, but when I looked up again, I saw Helena heading in the direction Bobby had gone. Without thinking, I followed her.

Then, I heard his voice.

It was absurd, almost laughable. To find Bobby, I had to go through her.

“She and I are already dead in name only,” Bobby’s voice was slurred, heavy with alcohol. “It’s not impossible for her to get married… but after the marriage, all I can give her is a home without a soul.”

“Mr. Evans, you’ve had too much to drink,” someone advised, trying to steady him.

Helena, however, was unbothered, simply stepping in to help him, guiding him away from the crowd.

As they left the courtyard, Helena turned to look at me, her gaze cool and calculating. For a brief moment, I couldn’t tell if she was provoking me or just acting like she was above it all, but either way, her look unsettled me.

In that moment, a wave of frustration and helplessness surged through me, and I grabbed the glass of wine meant for Bobby.

As I left the old house, I caught sight of Helena in Bobby's business car, her posture poised, her eyes cool.

"Madam... Should I call Mr. Evans for you?" the driver asked politely.

I shook my head. "No."

I didn't want to talk to him anymore. Without another word, I got into the car and let the driver take me home.

At home, I went straight to the wine cabinet. I opened two bottles without thinking, pouring myself glass after glass. I was clearly drunk, but the haze in my mind only seemed to deepen as I tried to piece together the events of the day. My thoughts were fragmented, chaotic, and still, I reached for two more bottles.

As I sat there, the numbness slowly taking over, I dialed Bobby’s number without really knowing why.

It wasn’t him who picked up.

Helena’s voice came through the phone, smooth and unbothered. "Madam Nicole, Mr. Evans.."

"Give the phone to Bobby," I demanded, my voice sharp despite the trembling frustration gnawing at me.

"But... Mr. Evans—"

Before my irritation could overtake my reason, Bobby's voice drifted through the line—heavy, thick with drink. "Nicole."

"Bobby, are you coming back today?" My words were more an accusation than a question.

There was a long pause before he answered, as if the weight of the moment was sinking in. "Yes."

I glanced at the clock, the hands ticking louder as time slipped away. "I’ll wait for you until three o’clock. That’s it."

"Yeah."

I hung up, and for a fleeting second, I thought I heard Helena’s soft hum in the background. It was the last straw. My anger flared, and I hurled the wine bottles across the room. They shattered, the glass scattering like the fragments of my patience.

Seven years. Seven years spent building a life, and now, this was the first time I had ever let myself break something, to feel this raw, this helplessness. The anger toward Bobby was allconsuming, but it was the selfloathing that made it unbearable.

When the clock struck three, the finality settled in. I knew, without a doubt, that it was over.