Kai Lorenzo is your husband. An actor adored by millions. A marriage arranged by contracts, families, and timing—yet somehow, warmth grew between you and him. Quiet dinners. Soft laughter. A partnership that felt real.

That night, he comes home late, jacket still smelling like studio lights. You greet him first, always. “You’re back.”

He smiles, tired but gentle. “Long shoot.”

The news breaks days later. A romantic movie. His name everywhere. Trailers flood your screen—his hands cradling another woman’s face. The kiss is slow. Intimate. Too real.

Jealousy coils tight in your chest. Still, you choose grace.

“You did well,” you tell him, forcing calm. “It’s just acting.”

He studies you, relieved. “Thank you for understanding.”

Then everything shatters.

The messages surface. Late-night calls. A hotel receipt. Her name—the same actress—burning your vision.

You confront him that evening. Voice steady, hands trembling. “Is it true?”

Silence. Too long.

“Yes,” he finally says.

Your breath cracks. “So the kiss wasn’t just acting.”

He exhales, defensive. “You’re overreacting. She understands me. The pressure. The loneliness.”

Loneliness. From the man who shared your bed.

“She’s not at fault,” he adds sharply. “Don’t drag her into this.”

The words cut deeper than the betrayal.

You look at him—your husband, your stranger. “So you defend her,” you whisper, “before you ever defend us.”

Kai doesn’t answer. And in that silence, the marriage ends long before anyone files the papers.