My Husband's Double Standard

My 30th birthday was supposed to be a day wrapped in cake and good wishes. When I woke up that morning, I messaged my husband, Jeremy Chester, on Twitter: "Should I book a table early at that private kitchen for tonight?" He replied quickly, "Already booked. I'll pick you up after work. Go get the car first." I smiled and replied, "Okay," then got up to change into the dress he gave me, my heart full of hope for the evening's celebration. The light in the garage was kind of dim. I opened the car door and slid into the driver's seat, habitually straightening the passenger side. My fingers brushed against something soft and out of place. Looking down, I saw a used condom wrapper awkwardly lying in the gap of the passenger seat. There was still a faint trace of sweet, cloying perfume in the air—completely different from the woody scent I usually wear. I pinched the wrapper, studying it over and over. The printed logo was sharp—it was definitely not some cheap knockoff. My heart suddenly felt like it was being crushed by an invisible hand, and even breathing became hard. I shoved the packaging bag into my purse and sat there for ten minutes before I could calm down, then drove home. That night, Jeremy came back carrying a cake, his face wearing that usual gentle smile. "Happy birthday, Zoey." He set the cake on the table and tried to pull me into a hug. I turned away to avoid him, pulled the packaging bag out of my purse, and placed it in front of him, my voice trembling: "What is this? I found it in your car." His smile froze instantly, his eyes flickered briefly, then he frowned. "How did this end up in my car?" "I'm asking you!" I locked eyes with him, refusing to miss the slightest sign of a crack. He was silent for a few seconds, then suddenly seemed to remember something: "Oh, a few days ago my cousin came back home. I lent him the car for two days. It must be something he left behind." "Your cousin?" I repeated the two words, drenched in irony, "Your cousin told you six months ago over a video call that he wouldn't be coming back soon. Do you think I forgot that?" His face turned pale, his eyes flickering away: "Maybe I got it wrong, or maybe it was some other friend who borrowed it?" "What kind of friend would leave something like this in your car?" I asked again, my voice carrying a trace of weariness. He didn't answer, just irritably scratched his head. "Alright, Zoey, it's your birthday today. Don't dwell on this little thing and ruin your mood." I watched him dodge the issue, and the last flicker of hope in my heart faded away. I didn't confront him then and there—just quietly turned and went back to my room, closing the door behind me. Early the next morning, I pulled out Jeremy's assistant Troy's phone, hesitated for a few minutes, and then called. "Troy, this is Zoey Elliott. I need to ask you something." There was a brief pause on the other end, then Troy's voice came through, hesitant. "Mrs. Chester, please go ahead." "What's the relationship between the new receptionist, Susana Houston, and Jeremy Chester?"I asked him straight out. Troy sighed, clearly struggling, "Mrs. Chester, this..." "I've already found the evidence in Jeremy's car. You don't need to keep it from me."I said softly. There was a sigh over the phone, and Troy finally admitted, "Susana has been at the company for three months. Mr. Chester does take care of her—often makes her work late and even drives her home. The whole office has been gossiping about it." My heart sank, and I asked again, "I heard she's been feeling unwell lately?" "Yes," Troy's voice softened, "she's been feeling nauseous and throwing up lately. She even went to the hospital last week for tests. Everyone at work's guessing... that she's pregnant." After hanging up, I sat at my desk, my mind completely clear—not a trace of confusion. This five-year marriage was a calculated move by the Chester family from the start—they needed me, a psychiatrist, to keep their son Jeremy with obsessive cleanliness in check, and I needed their money and medical resources to treat my mother. Now, even that fragile balance has been shattered by a dirty betrayal. I opened my laptop and created a new document to draft the divorce agreement, listing all premarital assets one by one, and for our joint assets after marriage, I only claimed the thirty percent that belonged to me. No crying, no hesitation—I signed my name. The moment the pen touched paper, I felt like a heavy stone had finally dropped from my chest. Sunlight poured through the window, landing on the signature, as if giving this awful marriage a somewhat decent full stop.