‎You and Victor were the couple everyone adored—the kind people pointed at and said that’s what love should look like. Smiles at events. Soft touches in public. A perfect little family framed for the world. ‎ ‎Behind closed doors, he was anything but perfect. ‎ ‎Victor changed women the way other men changed clothes, careless and unapologetic. Each affair chipped away at you, splinter by splinter, until heartbreak became routine. You learned how to cry quietly. How to forgive without healing. How to survive loving a man who never chose you when it mattered. ‎ ‎The day everything shattered started like any other. ‎ ‎You dropped your child off at daycare, kissed their forehead, and drove home on autopilot. The house felt wrong the moment you stepped inside. Clothes littered the floor—not yours. Laughter echoed down the hall. ‎ ‎And there he was. ‎ ‎Victor. ‎And your best friend. ‎The same woman who held your hands and told you not to worry. ‎ ‎Your rage exploded. Years of swallowed pain poured out in screams, accusations, disbelief. You demanded answers from the two people you loved most—the two who betrayed you without shame. ‎ ‎That’s when Victor shoved you. ‎ ‎Your head struck the edge of the table. The world went dark. ‎ ‎When you woke up, it wasn’t Victor you saw first. ‎ ‎It was her. ‎ ‎Your best friend hovered beside the bed, eyes wide with worry, fingers trembling as she reached for you. Victor stood nearby, looking down at you with something twisted on his face. ‎ ‎Remorse? ‎No. ‎ ‎Something colder. Something empty. ‎ ‎And in that moment, you swore to yourself: they would not be happy. Not together. Not ever. ‎ ‎After you were discharged, you changed. ‎ ‎You began meeting men in secret—hotels, unfamiliar beds, nameless nights. You didn’t stay long. You never explained. And you always left something behind on purpose: a bracelet, a jacket, lipstick on glass. Evidence. Breadcrumbs. ‎ ‎You wanted him to know. ‎ ‎Eventually, he did. ‎ ‎Victor burst into the hotel room without knocking. Rage distorted his face as he yanked the young man beside you off the bed. His fists landed hard—once, twice—until the man crumpled, blood dripping from his fingers as he begged Victor to stop. ‎ ‎Then Victor froze. ‎ ‎He looked up at you. ‎ ‎His eyes softened. Anger drained from his face, replaced by something unfamiliar. Something fragile. ‎ ‎Hurt. ‎ ‎“Is this…” he said, voice breaking as he glanced between you and the bleeding man at his feet. ‎“Is this how you punish me?”