Chapter 1

"W-What?"

My wife, Ava Miller Reynolds, went pale for a fraction of a second, caught completely off guard by my sudden outburst.

She recovered almost instantly. She gave her hips a subtle sway, then shoved the bucket of popcorn straight into the arms of our son, Ethan Reynolds.

She tossed me a defensive glare, her voice trembling slightly even as she tried to force an annoyed roll of her eyes.

"We hardly ever get out of the house. What’s the big deal if Ethan eats a few snacks? You’re completely overreacting. Kids these days aren't made of glass. A little junk food isn't going to kill him."

She thought I was confronting her about giving our kid popcorn.

Just then, my phone buzzed again.

On the screen, Ava’s lower body was arched up off her seat. Behind her, a dark silhouette moved against her in a rhythmic, relentless motion. Her upper body, angled right toward me, perfectly blocked my line of sight in the dark theater.

My coworkers were losing their minds in the work group chat, filling the screen with live updates.

[Holy crap, is this girl seriously here with her husband, her kid, and her side guy?]

[I totally thought they were just a couple!]

[I’m praying the husband doesn't figure it out. If a fight breaks out, it’s going to ruin the theater’s reputation.]

My coworkers could only see the back of our heads on the security feed. They had no idea the idiot being cheated on was their own boss.

They were right about one thing, though. Ethan was way too young. I couldn't let him watch his own mother degrade herself like this.

Besides, I had taken over management of this multiplex less than a week ago. To minimize the damage to the business, I had to choke back the rage. I had to wait.

Ava must have felt my gaze burning into her because her expression flickered with unease. Her fingers gripped the plastic armrest so hard her knuckles turned white.

Her breathing came fast and shallow, her eyes growing hazy in the dim light.

Suddenly, she reached out, pressing a slender finger against my lips. "Babe," she whispered, "What if we drop Ethan off at my mom's house tonight?"

She paused. Her cheeks flushed a deeper red, her voice quivering even more. "It's been forever since we... You know."

In seven years of marriage, she almost never initiated anything like this. If I hadn't just seen the crisp, high-definition footage from the theater, I probably would’ve wrapped my arms around her in excitement.

Now, the sight of her made my stomach churn.

When I stayed dead silent, she leaned closer. Just as she opened her mouth to speak again, her whole body jolted forward. A muffled, breathless gasp broke from her throat. She clamped her hand over her mouth in a panic, covering it up with a fake cough.

The work group chat exploded again.

[Man, the side guy is getting jealous. He's making moves right now.]

[This chick is wild. Glued to her side man while flirting with her husband?]

[She’s got a blanket over her lap, but honestly, if her husband just tilts his head, he’d see everything. Her dress is hiked up to her waist.]

I glanced out of the corner of my eye. Sure enough, the light fleece throw blanket we brought from home was draped across her lap. I was the one who grabbed it before we left the house, worried the theater AC would be too cold for her.

How ridiculous!

Suddenly, a surge of revulsion hit me. I lunged forward, grabbed Ethan out of the middle seat into my arms, and growled in a low, icy whisper, "Keep your trashy behavior away from our son."

Ava blinked, completely stunned, like she couldn't register what I was saying.

However, she didn't get angry. Instead, she sank back into her seat with a look of twisted satisfaction.

"Seven years of marriage and you're still such a block of wood," she teased, "You don't have a single romantic bone in your body."

A dark, bitter laugh threatened to bubble up in my chest.

Back when we first started dating, I bent over backward trying to plan romantic dates and surprises for her. She was the one who told me I was being impractical. She said I needed to be realistic, like other husbands who provided real financial security.

So, I worked myself to the bone. Every single month, I handed over my entire paycheck. I even put our house and car exclusively under her name. After all of that, she still blamed me for not being romantic.

I snapped back to reality and forced my eyes onto the silver screen. Even though the rustling continued right beside me, and the faint, sickening sound of fabric friction vibrated beneath the blanket, I didn't look back once.

Instead, I unlocked my phone, opened a private message to my head of security, and typed out a quick text: [Save the raw footage from Theater 3. Send a copy to me and legal immediately.]