It took Arthur three minutes to reply. I didn't know what he thought about during those minutes, but it no longer mattered.
Because his reply was simple: [Beautiful.]
It was my birthday that day. At eleven o'clock, he had just finished working overtime and came back to blow out the birthday candles with me.
When I finished making a wish and looked up, I saw Arthur staring at his phone for a long time.
When I asked him about it, he suddenly turned his head and quickly typed a few words, saying that something had come up at work.
So, there was no overtime.
I could almost see Lyla's satisfied smirk.
It was utterly disgusting.
My hand, clutching the phone, trembled with betrayal and anger, a surge of emotion so strong I could tear them apart.
Arthur and I had been together for seven years since we were twenty and married for three, and this year marked our tenth anniversary.
In ten years of love, our passion rarely faded. Arthur's thoughtfulness and care made me never doubt his sense of responsibility and loyalty.
But now, these chat records were a harsh slap in the face.
Arthur, how could you do this to me?
...
When I loved, I loved deeply, but I tolerated no betrayal.