Chapter 4

Before I divorced Ethan, I caused a real scene.

I took photos of the two of them in bed—sweaty, shameful, exposed. Then I printed hundreds of flyers, added captions, and mailed them to every single employee in his company.

Banners exposing their affair kept stretching wider and higher outside his office building.

I filed a complaint against Sophie with her art academy, accusing her of misconduct and moral corruption.

Soon, shameless gossip about her flooded the school's internal forum.

On the day of her graduation, I hired someone to play old videos of the three of us—laughing together, smiling—as a loop on the projection screen in the auditorium.

What had once been treasured memories now became the sharpest blade I used to stab them.

But Ethan protected her anyway.

She graduated effortlessly from the top art college in the country.

She was even preparing for her first solo gallery show.

To shield Sophie, Ethan finally bothered to look directly at me.

"Sophie's dream is finally coming true. This has nothing to do with our past. Don't mess it up for her."

But I was already consumed with rage.

"Mess it up? Oh, don't worry. I've already prepared everything. The people attending her show are going to love those ‘masterpieces'."

Suddenly, a document was slammed onto the table in front of me.

"If you want to keep your mother's burial site intact, then behave. Sign the divorce papers. Stay away from me and Sophie."

When my mother was buried, I had been too grief-stricken to handle anything myself. As the son-in-law, Ethan managed all the arrangements—including choosing the burial plot and placing his name on the property title.

Now that land had skyrocketed in value.

If he signed a transfer document, my mother's grave would be displaced.

I threw a cup of coffee in his face.

That night, I cried myself to sleep at her tombstone.

The next day, I still went to the law firm.

But the outcome wasn't quite what I had expected—Ethan only left me with one of his old suburban houses.

"You reported the company to the IRS anonymously. Now most of the assets are frozen. This is all I can legally give. If Sophie hadn't pleaded for you, you wouldn't have received a dime."

I had never been a match for Ethan, not since childhood.

He was always calm, calculating. Never impulsive. He was skilled at using power and strategy to get what he wanted.

I, on the other hand, was impulsive and reckless, always charging ahead on raw emotion—willing to hurt myself just to hurt others.

Eventually, I did what he wanted. I went quiet.

I sold the old house and was packing up to head south, but before I left, I paid a visit to Sophie's art show.

It was a last-minute decision.

A massive digital billboard in the city center displayed her soft, flawless portrait. The exhibition title: The Key to the Soul.

It was a phrase we'd used often in our letters during our younger years.

Pure emotions. Adolescent dreams. It had once held meaning only shared between true friends.

Almost masochistic now, I wrapped myself in layers and walked into the hall, feeling like some sewer rat sneaking into someone else's happiness.

Then I saw the painting titled The Key to the Soul.

Two naked bodies filled the frame.

The man had a mole on his shoulder blade—I had touched that spot a thousand times.

The woman's head rested on a wrinkled pillow. The background was a bed with lavender-colored sheets. Outside the window bloomed magnolia flowers, in full splendor.

That magnolia tree was one I had chosen and planted myself. From a flower market. In our own backyard.

Pink blossoms wide as teacups—blossoming silently in elegance.

That was my home.

Now I realized—it was where she and Ethan first slept together, too.

So...the "soul" was hers. And the "key" belonged to Ethan.

A sick wave of nausea rose from the pit of my stomach.

I vomited on the floor.

The commotion caught the attention of two nearby hosts.

A gentle, refined voice asked, "Are you alright?"

The heart-shaped brooch on her chest glittered in the light. The man's cufflinks had the same design—except his were shaped like a key.

I snapped.

I grabbed that shining brooch and lunged toward the painting on the wall.

—RIP!

The sound of canvas tearing cut through the room. Gasps filled the exhibition hall.

Chaos erupted. A security guard tackled me to the ground.

My cheek pressed against the cold marble floor, and I looked up just as Ethan held a sobbing Sophie in his arms.

His eyes met mine.

The look on his face? Like staring at a rat crawling out of a sewer.

"Call the police," he said.

I laughed. At first soft, then louder, maniacal. Guests pushed back in fear.

Because the painting was worth more than ten thousand dollars and my behavior had gone completely off the rails, I was sentenced to community service and compensation.

My lawyers managed to get me the lightest punishment—200 hours of service and $15,000 in damages.

But Sophie didn't let up. Her team filed a civil lawsuit, demanding an enormous amount for emotional distress.

The court battle dragged on for over a year.

I lost.

The judge ordered me to pay her $50,000 in "reputation damage" and "emotional compensation."

I had nothing left.

Ethan, through his lawyer, sent a message: If I made a public apology and admitted I lashed out because of jealousy, he would cover the cost.

I refused.

I'd scrub dishes in a shelter for the rest of my life before I bowed to them.

During those long grueling hours of community service, I often thought about giving up.

But every time I looked at my mother's photo, I reminded myself—I couldn't fall just yet.

A year later, thanks to good conduct, I finished my sentence ahead of time. I was still broke.

But my mind was clearer than ever.

The car pulled up at a fancy restaurant downtown, and Sophie went to the restroom to touch up her makeup.

Ethan stood beside me and, unexpectedly, offered a sincere apology.

"I'm sorry."

"What happened back then... it was wrong. I'll remind Sophie to show more restraint going forward."

I raised an eyebrow.

Ethan had refused to apologize to me, no matter what, in the past. Now he was the first to say sorry?

I stared at him, unable to understand.

"No need. You two are married. I just thought of the past when I saw you. That's all."

There was a hint of sorrow in his eyes.

I couldn't read him. Didn't want to.

Sophie came back, all smiles, as if nothing had happened in the car.

"Remember how the three of us used to pool coins to buy pizza at that place on the corner? Now look at us—eating at a Michelin-starred restaurant!"

But Ethan didn't look pleased.

"Back then, Abby only ate there to humor us. Her stomach couldn't handle all that greasy cheese. How could you forget?"

"It's alright. My stomach's fine now."

Years of careful recovery had returned both my body and mind to their best state.

Suddenly, my phone rang.

"My love" lit up on the screen.

I answered.

A crisp, playful male voice carried a trace of mockery: "Honey, taking this little rascal to a TV shoot is harder than ten days of nonstop meetings. When you get back, you'll find I've lost weight, I swear."

Then came a babyish little voice in the background.

"Not true! Mommy, Daddy was chatting with a pretty lady today. They were having so much fun..."

"You little brat! Setting traps for your old man now? That was the show host!"

I listened to the playful bickering and couldn't help smiling.

I looked up, and on the big screen across the square outside the restaurant, I saw a live TV broadcast: my husband's handsome face under the spotlight, answering interview questions with a straight face.

Beside him, our little boy—round-cheeked, bright-eyed—was eyeing both interviewer and father with pure curiosity.

Simply adorable.

After a few more words, I hung up and snapped a photo of the screen.

As I sent it off, I looked up and saw Ethan and Sophie frozen in place.

"Abby... you're married?"