Chapter 1My husband went out for a business dinner and came home late at night.
I went to greet him and gave him our usual welcome-home kiss, but caught a faint fishy smell on his lips.
"Why do you taste like oysters?"
"Had dinner with clients at a seafood restaurant."
But... my husband Nash has a deadly seafood allergy—he'll vomit just from smelling fish.
How could he willingly go to a place like that?
I took his coat with confusion, and a bright red lipstick mark on the collar caught my eye.
It turned out that what was full of holes wasn't just his lies, but our marriage too...
...
Midnight.
Nash finally was home.
He shrugged off his coat, draping it casually over his arm.
The movement stirred up a light breeze, carrying with it the faintest trace of... ocean.
Barely, but enough to make me instantly sit up straight on the couch.
"Working late again?"
I walked over, reaching for his coat.
He sidestepped me, tossing the coat onto the couch as he yanked at his tie.
"Last-minute client dinner. Couldn't get out of it."
His voice dripped with irritation—all directed at me.
I followed behind him, that smell hitting me again.
"Is that..." I hesitated, "Do you smell like... the ocean?"
Nash's hands froze on his tie.
He spun around, eyebrows drawn tight.
"Just changing perfumes." His tone was sharp. "Bulgari Aqva - you don't even know that?"
He'd never spoken to me with such raw impatience before.
"But you hate—"
"Lila," he cut me off, his voice turning ice-cold, "can you not overthink every damn thing? I'm dead tired from work. I didn't come home to get the third degree."
Without another glance, he stormed into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.
The rush of water cut off any chance for conversation.
I stood there, staring at that expensive tailored suit on the couch, feeling something cold settle in my chest.
The Nash I knew... wasn't like this.
Back in college, during a club dinner, the second a plate of garlic scallops hit our table, he started sneezing uncontrollably.
Within minutes, angry red welts broke out across his face and his breathing got all wonky.
We totally freaked out, scrambling to get him to the ER.
It was a whole nightmare that lasted until the crack of dawn.
From that point on, everyone around him knew he was allergic to seafood—and that it was life-threatening.
When we got married, I made it my mission to remember this.
Our dinner table was a seafood-free zone, period.
But my mom didn't know about this.
She came to visit me once, bringing lots of seafood from my hometown of Carmel, and spent the whole afternoon preparing an elaborate feast.
Steamed grouper, salmon salad, lobster pasta.
When Nash and I came home and opened the door, the rich aroma of seafood hit us immediately.
So good~
But the next second I became alert and looked at Nash—
Sure enough, his face had turned serious, cold as ice.
He froze in the doorway, staring at the table full of dishes from a distance with an expression of utter disgust.
"Who told you to make this crap?"
Mom was still all smiles, walking up to greet him.
"Nash, honey, you're home! Come try Mom's cooking, I promise you'll—"
"GET IT OUT!"
He suddenly exploded, his voice so loud Mom actually flinched.
Before anyone could react, he rushed to the dining table, grabbed the tablecloth and yanked it violently.
In an instant, all the dishes went flying to the floor.
The sharp, piercing sound of plates shattering made me instinctively cover my ears and scream.
"I told you I CAN'T handle that fucking smell!"
His eyes were bloodshot as he pointed at my mom. "Are you deaf? Trying to kill me or something?"
Mom went pale as a sheet, standing there speechless.
I rushed over to grab his arm, tears welling up.
"Why are you screaming at her? She didn't know—she was just trying to be nice!"
"Nice?" He let out a bitter laugh. "Save it!"
That night, Mom locked herself in the guest room and caught the first flight home the next morning.
Later, Nash probably realized he'd gone too far.
He pulled a Tiffany bracelet from his pocket and awkwardly pressed it into my hand.
"About Mom..." he said quietly, "explain it to her for me. I really... couldn't control myself. I'm sorry for scaring you all..."
I opened my palm—the bracelet was delicate and beautiful, exactly the style I liked.
But somehow I couldn't feel happy about it.
I comfort myself: He'd lost control in a life-threatening moment, that was all.
But tonight, Nash—the same guy who'd lose it over the faintest ocean smell—had somehow managed to wear that scent home.
Chapter 2
The next morning, Nash acted like nothing had happened, casually sipping his oatmeal at the table.
I slid his scrambled eggs onto his plate, trying to sound nonchalant.
"I dropped your coat off at the dry cleaner yesterday."
"Mmm," he grunted, not looking up.
"They were pretty thorough—said they detected some weird smell and wanted to make sure it wouldn't transfer to other clothes."
Nash's spoon slowed.
"What smell?" Still not meeting my eyes.
"Like... seafood."
"Lila," he finally looked at me, his expression blank, "is this really that big a deal? Worth bringing up over and over?"
"You're right. It's not." I forced a smile. "Just eat."
He went back to his oatmeal in silence, grabbed his briefcase, and headed out.
The whole time, never looked at me.
And, it's just a beginning.
The next few days, our house felt like a tomb.
We kept up appearances—he came home on time, I cooked dinner—but we barely exchanged words.
He'd rather watching boring financial news than say even one word to me.
I stopped pushing for answers.
I knew I wouldn't get any from him anyway.
That weekend, I snuck his phone into the bathroom while he was taking a nap.
I'd always known his passcode—my birthday.
I tried it.
The screen lit up.
Part of me felt relieved, part of me felt pathetic.
I opened his messages.
His chat list was pretty clean—mostly work groups and a few close friends.
I scrolled through everything, coming up empty.
Just when I was about to give up, I suddenly thought of something—
His Venmo transaction history!
7-Eleven $15.
Subway $13.
Providence $950...
Providence?
Never heard that.
The transaction time was Wednesday at 9:30 PM—the very day he came home with that fishy smell.
I immediately opened Google to search.
The page loaded, showing a photo of an elegantly decorated restaurant.
It was a Michelin two-star seafood restaurant in Los Angeles.
My fingers went numb around the phone.
So, that night he wasn't at a business dinner after all—he'd gone to the neighboring city, even to a restaurant he'd be least likely to visit.
I kept quiet, just mentally filed away the restaurant's name.
Life seemed to return to normal.
Nash stopped coming home late, even started making small talk occasionally, asking about my day.
But the more normal he acted, the more my anxiety spiked.
Friday afternoon, I got a call from an unknown number.
"Is this Lila?" A young, cheerful female voice.
"Yes, who's this?"
"I'm Sofia, a new intern in Nash's department. Nash asked me to let you know he's got a team dinner tonight and will be home late."
My heart sank. "Why didn't he tell me himself?"
"He's stuck in meetings and left his phone with me. He was worried you'd get concerned, so he had me call."
Sofia sounded incredibly sweet and thoughtful.
"Please don't be mad at Nash—he's just swamped with work."
"Got it, thanks for calling."
After hanging up, I stared out the window, lost in thought.
I knew Nash's company inside and out—I'd worked there as an accountant for our first two years of marriage—they never let interns handle executives' personal business.
Especially not their personal phones.
10:00 PM.
Nash came home, reeking of alcohol.
I helped him to the couch and brought him water.
"How was the team dinner? What did you guys eat?" I loosened his tie while making conversation.
"Just... whatever. Random stuff," he mumbled.
"That new intern seems really sweet—calling to give me a heads up and everything."
Nash's body went rigid.
"Oh yeah?" He closed his eyes like he was about to pass out. "She's a smart kid."
I didn't say anything else, just helped him out of his shoes and covered him with a blanket.
Once he was out cold, I took his phone again.
Hell.
Password changed.
No longer my birthday.
I tried our anniversary—wrong.
His birthday—wrong.
Then, on some crazy impulse, I typed in: 0826.
The screen unlocked.
That was Sofia's birthday.
I'd seen it in the company directory Nash had pulled up once.
At the top of his messages was someone saved as "S."
I tapped it.
There weren't many messages, but enough to make my blood turn to ice.
S: "Do I look cute in this dress? [photo]"
Nash: "Gorgeous."
S: "I switched the coffee in your office to Peet's. That no-name brand you had before was so cheap-looking."
Nash: "Perfect."
S: "Tonight's dinner is boring AF. I wanna go feel the ocean breeze."
Nash: "Wait for me. I'll take you after this wraps up."
The most recent message was from thirty minutes ago.
S: "Home safe?"
Nash: "Yeah. She's asleep."
There he was, lying right next to me, telling another woman I was asleep.
So the coffee I had personally ground for him was "cheap-looking" in his eyes.
So he wasn't actually swamped with work—his work just didn't include me anymore.
So he could handle the ocean just fine—as long as I wasn't the one with him.
Chapter 3
Building up enough disappointment feels like being slowly boiled alive.
At first, you just notice the water's a bit warm—uncomfortable but manageable.
You tell yourself it's all in your head.
By the time it's actually boiling, you're too weak to jump out.
I started having insomnia, staring at the ceiling all night while my thoughts spiraled into chaos.
Nash's changes became impossible to ignore.
He started traveling constantly—sometimes disappearing for three or four days straight.
He'd show me his flight confirmations and hotel bookings, everything looking completely legit.
But I knew where he really was.
Sofia never bothered hiding her social media from anyone—or maybe she wanted me to see it all along.
She'd post location tags from whatever city Nash was supposedly "traveling" to, sharing scenic photos with loaded captions.
"Being spoiled so much, I'm turning into such a princess!"
The photo showed a hand wearing Nash's Patek Philippe watch, peeling shrimp for her.
Nash.
Shrimp.
The people and thing that could never appear together were now tightly connected in front of another woman.
I threw my phone aside and buried my face in my hands, but no tears would come.
I remembered when I had that brutal stomach flu—throwing up and completely dehydrated.
I called him with a shaky voice, begging him to come home and take me to urgent care.
He sounded annoyed on the other end: "I'm in a crucial meeting right now. Just call an Uber. If it's not a big deal, don't bother me again."
Later I found out he wasn't in any meeting.
One of his friends posted Instagram stories from a music festival, and there in the background were Nash and Sofia—he had her on his shoulders, both of them laughing like carefree kids.
Turns out my health crisis was "not a big deal."
Her fun times were "crucial."
I became quieter, stopped initiating conversations, stopped caring when he came home.
He seemed perfectly content with the arrangement.
Sometimes he'd look at me and frown. "What's with the attitude lately? Walking around with that sour face."
I'd look back at him, wanting to ask what expression he'd prefer.
Should I smile and congratulate you both?
But the words would die in my throat.
What was the point?
When your heart's already dead, I guess this is what's left.
Two months later, my birthday arrived.
I took half the day off and hit Walmart, loading up on ingredients.
I figured this might be our last shot.
I wanted to try, just one more time.
I made his favorite pasta bolognese and beef Wellington. I didn't buy a cake but baked one myself.
Maybe this way the chances of success would be better.
Right?
But I was in the kitchen from afternoon until evening.
Until every dish on the table had gone stone cold.
He still wasn't home.
I called him—straight to voicemail.
I curled up on the sofa, pulling a blanket around myself in the corner.
Waiting from dark until dawn.
Until sunlight came through the window and fell on my face, I picked up my phone to check the time,
6:33 AM.
I had really been waiting for him so long.
I scrolled through my notifications when Sofia's early morning Instagram update caught my eye.
A photo from Providence.
Sofia was holding this massive rose-covered cake, grinning like she'd won the lottery.
Nash stood behind her—his face was blurred out, but I'd recognize that shirt I'd personally ironed anywhere.
The caption: "Thank you for remembering my birthday and celebrating with me."
So he did remember it was someone's birthday today—it just wasn't me.
In that moment, the last flicker of hope in my heart was extinguished by this cold, relentless rain.
I calmly stood up, scraped all the untouched food into the trash.
Including the cake I'd put all my effort into making.
Then I called a lawyer.
"Hi, I need to discuss asset division in a divorce case."
No more crying.
No more trying.
Because I finally understood that to someone who doesn't love you anymore, your tears are worth absolutely nothing.
