This wasn’t the first time I got one of those steamy videos.
In the clip, the guy roughly tore off the woman’s clothes, and her moans and gasps practically drilled through my earbuds. They were all over each other, so intense that even I, just watching from the sidelines, felt my face burning. But they? Totally unbothered.
Right as things were getting more heated, my phone flashed a low battery warning—only 10% left. I didn’t bother watching any longer and just shut it off.
The woman? Isabella Turner, that mediocre third-tier actress. The man? None other than my legally-wedded husband—Ethan Johnson.
An hour ago, while I was busting my ass saving a patient in the ER, surprise surprise—Isabella sent over a bunch of selfies with Ethan, all lovey-dovey, along with a few X-rated videos that made me want to throw up.
Now, standing by the office window, watching the sky slowly brighten, I gave a bitter smirk. If it weren’t for my sister’s illness back then, I wouldn’t have lowered myself to marry Ethan. And definitely wouldn’t be standing here like a clown, humiliated by him and his mistress.
Ethan barely ever set foot in the Minghu Villa. But the moment I stepped onto the stairs, I heard it—the unmistakable sound of a woman moaning, loud enough to shatter glass.
I looked up. There they were, half-dressed, tangled up on the couch in the upstairs lounge. Classy.
I curled my lip. Honestly, I wanted to cuss out loud right then. Didn't know I had it in me to stand there like a statue, frozen, actually watching them do their little live show. It felt like I’d stumbled into an uncensored adult flick being shot right in my living room. I stood at the top of the stairs, eyes cold as ice, locked on the scene.
Just as Ethan was about to… you know, I snapped, yelling, "Mr. Johnson! Starting your morning off with a bang, huh?"
His sharp, chilly eyes pierced through me, as cold as icebergs. But he quickly looked away, turned all warm and soft again as he locked his gaze back on the woman beneath him.
Expression flat, I stared at them. "You done? If so, get the hell out of my house. If not, don’t let me interrupt."
Boiling with anger, Ethan didn’t say a word—just picked Isabella up in his arms and carried her straight into the bedroom. As they passed, she shot me this smug little smile that made my stomach turn.
My mind went blank. I’d seen countless clips and pics people sent me of him messing around, but nothing hit quite like witnessing it live.
After their second round or whatever, Isabella came out, looking perfectly put together. She wiggled her hips and gave me that fake-sweet smile: “Emma Williams, just divorce him already, will you? Ethan told me you were knocked up by some other guy, that’s why he’s never touched you. So what’s your deal, clinging to him like this? Oh, and I'm genuinely curious—whose baby were you carrying, anyway?"
Her words made me shake all over, like my heart had been ripped open. My voice dripped with sarcasm as I stared her down. "Ha, whoever it was… it's not for you to know."
Then suddenly—“crack!”—Ethan slammed his phone to the floor without warning.
The screen shattered on impact.
Before I could react, he grabbed me, dragged me into the bedroom, kicked the door shut behind us, and shoved me hard against it, his eyes burning with rage.
