Chapter 3My Girlfriend Became His Wife

The next morning, when I pushed open the bedroom door, the scent of fresh coffee and savory porridge hung in the air. On the breakfast table sat two warm bowls, flanked by a plate of golden fried eggs.

Samantha was standing by the stove, wearing an apron, her hair pulled back into a messy bun.

She was up before seven. That hadn't happened in months.

Given our current salaries, paying for a decent breakfast at the cafe down the street was a trivial expense, not to mention a much more practical choice for a weekday commute. But seeing her standing there by the steam dragged my mind back to the year we graduated.

Back then, we had decided to stay in the city together, bright-eyed and utterly broke. Our entry-level salaries barely covered the rent on that damp studio apartment with peeling baseboards. Every dollar was counted twice. To survive, we cooked every single meal from scratch and packed cheap brown-bag lunches for work.

Back then, everything that should have felt like drudgery felt like an adventure because we did it together. We would weave through crowded weekend farmers' markets, checking the price per pound of loose produce, arguing playfully over what to make for dinner. We’d crowd into a tiny galley kitchen, shoulder to shoulder, experimenting with recipes off the internet. If a simple stir-fry turned out halfway edible, we’d celebrate like we’d earned a Michelin star.

We had nothing, but we had a future we both believed in. I used to look at her across that tiny laminate table and genuinely think that this was the woman I would grow old with, side by side, until our hair turned silver.

I stood in the hall, watching her stir the pot.

It had been at least a year since I’d seen her put on that apron.

Ever since Brett showed up in town, my name had slid further and further down her priority list. Brett only had to text that his stomach felt funny, and Samantha would brave a driving rainstorm at midnight, driving all the way across town to buy him soup, medicine, and groceries. Meanwhile, our own kitchen, once warm and alive with the smell of shared meals, was left cold for me to manage alone.

"You're awake?"

Samantha turned around, holding a carton of oat milk, her face arranged into an eager, placating smile. "Come sit. You had a lot to drink last night, so I made something light to settle your stomach. It’ll help with the hangover."

If I hadn't seen that marriage certificate on Simon’s phone with my own eyes, I might have fallen for it. I would have believed she was just an overworked partner trying to smooth over a missed holiday.

But I knew better.

The domestic warmth, the sweet smile, the warm bowl—it wasn't born out of affection. It was the frantic, cheap currency of a guilty conscience. She wasn't loving me; she was soothing herself, hoping a warm meal would buy off her sins so she didn't have to look in the mirror.