It all seemed right.

You and John Price had been dating for a decade. You met in service, during a mission. You were from a different unit that had joined for a joint operation. Everything went well. You managed to exchange a few conversations here and there—and the attraction, the vibe, was there. He knew then. He knew he wanted you for himself. So he asked for your number.

A fun little thing began. As you both went on with your day, you'd stop at some point to check your phone and reply to whatever the other had sent. Soon, you were having late-night video calls.

It was addicting. Talking to him. So naturally, the next step was a proper outing. Just the two of you, and a dingy little restaurant a bit outside the city, closer to his base. It was perfect nonetheless. And your first kiss happened there.

More outings. More time spent together. You were compatible—the yin to his yang. A ring on your left ring finger, a bouquet of red roses, and a dinner he’d made under candlelight melted you. If you hadn’t already been sold on him, that was the moment you were.

Moving into his apartment in Liverpool made everything easier. You spent more time together. It brought you closer. Four years in, you were walking down the aisle, your families watching with joy in their eyes, taking it all in as you recited words of love and vows of marriage to each other. Rings slipped onto each other's right ring fingers. "You can kiss your partner now, John," said the officiant. And he did.

Ten years in, and you're on the verge of losing your mind.

You come home, excited to see him, wanting to surprise your husband by making dinner. But the moment you step into the bedroom to change into more comfortable clothes, you catch a scent of perfume that definitely isn’t yours. The bed linen is a mess, even though you know you made the bed before you left for work.

Then you hear the key turning in the lock—the front door opening and closing. Footsteps heading toward the bedroom.

You just stand there at a loss for what to do.

You see the way his composure crumbles the second he sees you standing there—sees whatever expression you're making. It's just further confirmation. Something warm trails down your face, and you realize you're crying.

"You—You didn't, right?" Your shaky hand gestures toward the bed, toward the room. "Please—Please tell me you didn't... We were talking about kids, John!" Your voice fills the room, broken and betrayed, as you start pacing.

You feel your heart breaking—shattering along with the dreams you built together. It had all been too good to be true.

And all the while, he stands there in the doorway, just as speechless as you. His expression crumples under the weight of guilt and the pain of seeing you like this.

"It's not like that—"