A Fateful Mistake, Endless Remorse

The phone screen's light was especially harsh in the dead of night.

#Suspected Jones Group President's Late-Night Secret Meeting with Mysterious Woman# had shot up the trending list, sitting at number two.

My fingertips felt ice-cold as I clicked on the news.

The photos were clearly taken secretly—blurry quality, hidden angles.

The background showed a private room in some high-end hotel. The man's profile was tall and straight, wearing that same custom suit from earlier in the day, his head lowered as he placed a ring on the woman opposite him.

The woman's hand was slender, and the pink diamond ring on her ring finger was glaring.

I recognized that ring.

It was the one Matthew Jones had given me during the day. I'd been afraid of losing it, so I'd asked him to keep it safe.

My breathing became difficult. I zoomed in on the photo and stared at it for a long, long time.

Until the screen automatically went dark, and darkness swallowed everything.

At 2 AM, I messaged Matthew: [Is the celebration dinner over?]

No reply.

At 3 AM, I sent another: [My stomach's bothering me a bit. Can you come back?]

Still nothing.

On the coffee table sat the birthday cake he'd bought me, the cream roses already half-collapsed.

It wasn't until 6 AM that I heard the sound of the door opening downstairs.

I slowly walked to the top of the stairs.

Matthew was changing his shoes in the entryway. He looked up, saw me, and froze for a moment.

"Why are you up so early?"

I held the stair railing and slowly descended. After a whole night without sleep, I felt terribly dizzy. "I couldn't sleep."

Matthew quickly stepped forward and caught me halfway down the stairs. "Why is your face so pale?"

I didn't answer, letting him carry me to the sofa.

His movements were careful, like handling something fragile. "You didn't stay up all night, did you?"

I leaned back into the sofa, my eyes on him.

He was wearing yesterday's shirt, the collar slightly wrinkled, and he smelled of perfume that wasn't mine.

"Matthew." I spoke softly, extending my hand. "That ring I asked you to keep yesterday? I've thought about it—I'd like to wear it after all."

The air froze.

Matthew looked away and sat down beside me, reaching to put his arm around my shoulders.

"Why the sudden change? It's fine to wear it for important occasions, but isn't it inconvenient for everyday?"

As his lips were about to touch my cheek, I jerked my head away.

My stomach churned.

Who knows what he and that woman did during the night he didn't come home?

"Michelle?" Matthew froze there, frowning. "What's wrong?"

I shook my head, my nails digging into my palms as I forced a smile.

"Nothing. I just saw some news last night about a man having a late-night meeting with his childhood sweetheart girlfriend, even putting a ring on her finger."

"It made me think about my pink diamond ring still with you, and suddenly I wanted to wear it. Give it to me."

Matthew's Adam's apple bobbed.

"Michelle, that ring is gone."

My heart felt like something was squeezing it hard.

"Gone?" I repeated, my voice barely audible.

"Yes, the venue was probably too chaotic yesterday. I don't know where it fell." He reached to hold my hand, his palm sweaty. "I've already asked a friend to help look for it. Don't worry—Justin Brown has connections, you know. He'll definitely find it, and then I'll put it on you myself."

"Did you report it to the police?" I interrupted him.

Matthew froze.

"Something this valuable going missing—you should file a police report." I looked at him, enunciating each word. "Do you need me to make the call?"

"No need." He said quickly, his speech unnaturally fast. "I've already asked Justin to check. He knows people at auction houses. If it shows up on the market, he'll know right away."

"We can get another one just like it, or even better, okay?"

He looked at me with sincere eyes and a gentle tone.

Exactly like every other time he'd coaxed me over the past four years.

But I knew he was lying.

That pink diamond was one of a kind in the world—he'd bought it at auction for an astronomical price.

He'd once held my hand in front of cameras and said, "Just like Michelle—there's only one in the whole world."

Now that unique ring was on another woman's hand.

And he sat before me, lying without batting an eye.

"Okay." I heard myself say.

Matthew visibly relaxed, his smile returning.

He didn't notice my pale complexion or the trembling of my fingers.

"Then it's settled." He leaned close, his forehead against mine. "I talked too late with business partners yesterday and forgot to come back for your birthday. My fault. I'll spend the whole day with you today—we can do whatever you want."

His breath brushed against my face. Before, I would have found it comforting, but now I felt slightly nauseous.

I'd looked at this face for four years, kissed it countless times, traced it with my fingers in the dead of night while he slept.

I thought I understood the emotion behind every expression.

But now, he only felt like a stranger.

"Then have Justin help check on the ring situation?" I looked into his eyes, speaking slowly.

Matthew's smile froze on his face.

"What's wrong?" I watched the hesitation on Matthew's face and said with a smile, "Is it inconvenient for Justin to help? Isn't he your best friend?"

Matthew looked at me, something flashing in his eyes—too quick for me to catch.

After a long moment, he reached out and ruffled my hair, the gesture as affectionate as always.

"Alright, I'll call him in a bit and have him keep an eye on the auction houses."

"As soon as that ring appears, no matter the cost, I'll get it back for you."

He paused, his tone half-teasing, half-indulgent. "What news did you see last night anyway that's got you so distracted? Asking for the ring first thing in the morning."

As he spoke, he pulled out his phone and sent a voice message to his assistant Paul Wilson right in front of me. "Clean up all that messy news from the airport yesterday. Don't let Michelle see it and get upset."

His expression was natural, even carrying a hint of indignation on my behalf.

Watching him look out for me like this, that tightly wound string in my heart loosened slightly.

Maybe it really was just a coincidence. The person celebrating Katherine Adams's birthday might not have been Matthew—those photos were so blurry.

Breakfast was eggs he'd fried himself, cooked just right.

During the meal, he chattered about today's company schedule, then asked if I wanted to visit the newly opened gallery in the afternoon.

Everything seemed back to normal.

After eating, he knelt before me, holding my ankle, skillfully trimming my toenails.

In all our years of marriage, I'd never really trimmed my own finger or toenails.

He always did it at just the right time, naturally taking care of each one.

I'd once teased him, "Matthew, how are you so practiced at this kind of thing?"

His nail-trimming had paused then, and he'd said with his head lowered, "I worked part-time at a nail salon when I was studying abroad."

Under the light, his profile had looked so gentle.

I'd only felt sorry for him then, wrapping my arms around his neck and saying, "That must have been hard."

Thinking back now, that momentary pause might have meant something else.

"Done." He put soft cotton socks on me, then slipped on my heels, his fingertips pressing gently at my ankle. "If walking gets tiring, there are flats in the office."

"Got it." I smiled at him.

The car headed toward the company. The whole way, he held my hand.

Walking into the building, employees greeted us respectfully, their gazes falling on me with familiar envy.

In the afternoon, drowsiness hit. I lay on the bed in his lounge, my eyelids heavy.

Matthew came in after finishing some documents, quietly closing the door.

The mattress dipped as he lay down beside me, his arm coming around me.

I mumbled something incoherent and nuzzled into his embrace.

But his kisses fell—from my forehead to the tip of my nose, finally stopping at my lips, gently lingering.

His warm hand slipped under my clothes, his calloused fingertips sliding across the skin at my waist.

I was too tired to open my eyes and pushed at him weakly. "Stop it, I'm so tired."

His breathing grew heavier. He buried his face in my neck, his voice extremely hoarse. "Honey, can we?"

That voice held some burning desire, and a trace of inexplicable urgency.