On weekends, they went hiking and camping, lying under the stars to talk about the universe.
He took her overseas to see her favorite singer’s concert, kissing her in the front row as the camera projected them onto the big screen.
That night, Emily updated her Instagram:
“I want starlight and sunlight, I want the world to surrender, but most of all, I want you by my side.”
The photo showed two hands tightly intertwined.
Those long, pale fingers with clean knuckles—I recognized them instantly as Daniel’s.
The next day, Emily sent me a video of them kissing passionately.
She was young and bold, utterly unashamed. She thought she had done nothing wrong.
“Sophia, I’m just dating Daniel. It won’t affect your marriage at all.”
“My love for him is no less than yours. For him, I don’t even need a title.”
That night, I sat in the study all alone until dawn, unable to swallow the bitterness stuck in my throat.
At sunrise, I stormed into the bedroom, eyes red, and confronted Daniel.
“How far have you gone with her?”
He buttoned his shirt slowly, face blank.
“You’re overthinking. It’s just fun between colleagues. I know my boundaries.”