Last Winter, You Gave My Love Away

Standing at the windswept curb of the airport, shivering in the biting cold, I held my phone tightly, dialing my husband, Matthew Granges, over and over again.

How desperately I wished he would answer, if only to tell me, "It was all a misunderstanding. That call earlier was just a silly game we were playing at the annual gala."

But there was nothing.

The echo of his morning farewell still lingered in my ears. "Daphne, I'll wait for you to come back. Safe travels."

I tried convincing myself that the phone call had been a hallucination, a trick of my overworked mind. Yet no matter how hard I tried, images of Matthew holding another woman flashed relentlessly before my eyes.

Unwilling to accept what I feared, I called one of his employees. The confirmation was swift and crushing—Matthew hadn't attended the team-building event, nor had his assistant, Eva Reinhart.

In that moment, whatever fragile hope I had clung to was doused by the cold waters of reality.

My heart throbbed with a pain so fierce that I crouched down slowly, clutching my chest. My trembling fingers opened my phone to see the latest post on Eva's social feed: [Personally tested—our CEO is excellent in every way.]

The accompanying picture stopped my breath. Wrapped in a towel, her exposed shoulder bore a dark butterfly tattoo. A pair of large hands gripped her slender waist, the owner leaning in to kiss her neck.

Though the man's face wasn't visible, the hand alone spoke volumes for his satisfaction.

A dark rose tattoo was visible on the left side of the man's abdomen.

I stared at that tattoo, my vision blurring. I knew it all too well. It was Matthew's.

That tattoo had been etched six months ago, a secret he hadn't shared until I stumbled upon it when the scabs had already healed.

I remembered the day vividly. I had been angry, upset that he would do such a thing without a thought for his health. I scolded him for being careless with his body, worried about the potential harm from tattoo ink.

He'd snapped at me for meddling in his affairs, calling me annoying, even storming off to spend the night at a bar.

I was the one who eventually went to the bar to bring him back, apologizing in front of his friends just to ease his anger.

At the time, I'd thought he was merely indulging in a passing whim, a fondness for novelty. Foolishly, I'd even suggested getting a matching tattoo to complement his.

He'd only glared at me, calling me crazy and foolish.

That was the end of it—or so I'd believed. I'd comforted myself, thinking his refusal was out of care for me.

Now, crouching here in the cold, I saw it all for what it truly was. He had been laughing at my naivety, mocking my self-importance.

He was right. I had been foolish, so foolish.

At least now, I was awake to the truth.

I don't remember how long I sat there, frozen and numb. Only when Matthew's call came through did I notice that my hands were stiff and icy.

The cold had seeped into my very core, curling its tendrils around my organs, leaving me trembling.

My fingers shook as I answered the call, the movement awkward and jerky.

His voice, sharp and furious, lashed through the line:

"Daphne! How dare you take so long to answer my call! Do you realize the trouble you've caused by standing up our client? Do you even know how much we'll have to pay for breaching the contract?"

His words, colder than the winter air, cut through me. A bitter laugh escaped my lips as I replied, "Really? Just because I didn't pick up your call right away, you're gonna talk to me like that?"

Maybe it was the first time I'd ever spoken to him like that because there was a sudden silence on the other end.

After a few seconds, he spoke again, his tone softer and more controlled. "I'm sorry. I got too worked up earlier. But you can't just leave our client hanging like that."