For years, I believed my marriage to Stan was a fairy tale. We were in sync in every way, and I was convinced we were soulmates. I focused on his needs, even delaying having children, all because I thought our love was everything. But when I discovered that he had been renting a secret house on the outskirts of the city, everything I knew about him shattered.
Stan and I met seven years ago in Tokyo at a press conference, and we had been together ever since—married for five years. He was perfect in every way, or so I thought.
“I had a rough day, but seeing you makes everything better,” he’d say, collapsing beside me after work. We’d share everything, laugh together, and I’d always smile at his sweet gestures, like the jewelry he gave me. But after a while, the gifts didn’t mean much to me. I wanted his time, not expensive necklaces.
Stan’s work became his priority, and soon, we drifted apart. He worked late, and I was left at home, cleaning and waiting for his return. Our connection weakened, and my heart broke as I missed the intimacy we once had.
Then, one morning, after he left for work, I noticed he had forgotten his phone. When it buzzed later, I couldn’t resist checking it. The message I found changed everything:
“STAN! THIS IS YOUR FINAL REMINDER TO PAY THE RENT FOR THE HOUSE, OR I’LL HAVE TO RENT IT OUT TO SOMEONE ELSE! TOMORROW IS THE DEADLINE!”
I was stunned. My husband was renting a house? Why hadn’t he told me? My mind raced as I tried to comprehend what I had just read.
Later, Stan called, saying he’d be working late. Something didn’t feel right, so I decided to follow him. At 6 p.m., I saw him drive to the outskirts of the city and park outside a small, rundown house. I told the driver to wait and gathered my courage to follow him.
Inside, I found Stan sitting near a painting easel. He was startled when I entered, and when I asked why he had rented this house, he explained it was his escape—a place to relax and refresh away from his demanding career.
I tried to understand, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was hiding something. Then, the doorbell rang. A young woman, chewing bubblegum, appeared at the door. When I asked who she was, she revealed she was Luke’s girlfriend, and that he painted portraits of her. But Stan’s name wasn’t Luke—it was Stan.
The truth came crashing down. Stan was cheating on me.
I found paintings of the woman on easels, and photos of Stan in compromising positions with her. He tried to explain, but it was too late. The betrayal was too much. I fled, packed my things, and sought refuge at my aunt’s place.
Two weeks later, I began divorce proceedings. My world was shattered, and I couldn’t understand how I had been so blind. Stan’s image was destroyed, and I reported him to the authorities, reclaiming a sense of power in this nightmare.
Now, as I sit in my new apartment, I reflect on how quickly everything fell apart. The marriage I thought was perfect crumbled into pieces. The scars left by this betrayal will take time to heal. How could I have trusted him so completely? How could I have been so deceived?
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