Santa's Nasty Surprise

By the time Yves Golding got home, it was already midnight.

I was lying in bed, staring at a photo of him and Melissa Lane. His abs showed faintly beneath his red Santa suit as she leaned against them, eyes shyly closed.

Their colleagues had left comments below the post, saying that they were a perfect match and that Yves was quite bold.

Melissa commented, "You guys, stop making things up. Mr. Golding was just being kind by keeping a lonely soul like me company for Christmas!"

Just then, a drunken Yves embraced me from behind, his wandering hands becoming restless.

I reached out and turned the light on. The love bites on his neck were glaringly red and prominent.

I held my phone to his face and coldly asked, "Is this what you meant by having things to do?"

A flicker of panic flashed in his eyes, but it was quickly replaced by impatience. "You're even jealous over this? It's just a superior being empathetic toward a subordinate," he said.

"Besides, it's not as if you don't know this about me. I can't stand women who are poor and dumb."

Although he said this, his gaze had a hint of fondness. It was completely devoid of the disdain he had first shown when talking about Melissa.

Just a week ago, I told him that since our wedding anniversary is on Christmas day, I wanted to have a proper celebration with him.

He had impatiently replied, "Why should we celebrate Christmas too? You're so ridiculous."

I admit that I had been gaslit at the time, especially after I had just seen the luxury jewelry set worth over nine million dollars in his suit pocket.

But now, Melissa was wearing that exact same jewelry set.

At my silence, Yves climbed into bed and wrapped his arms around me, pressing his lips against mine.

The stench of alcohol wafting off him sickened me. When I thought about how his tongue was about to invade my mouth—and how I didn't even know where else that tongue had been—I quickly pushed him away, saying, "It's really late, and I'm exhausted. Let's turn in early."

Yves was visibly stunned when he heard me give the same excuse he'd often use. His expression darkened as he snapped, "Cynthia York, don't forget that you were the one who insisted on recruiting Melissa into the company back then.

"You said that she came from a poor family and that she was hardworking and ambitious. You asked me to look after her more.

"There were several times I wanted to replace her, but you wouldn't let me. So what do you want now?"

Yves was quite the chatterbox that night.

"I just want to sleep," I said. Ignoring him, I got up and walked toward the guest room.

I wasn't making a fuss. I didn't plan to throw divorce papers at him and storm out. I wasn't pregnant, so I could not arrange a dramatic escape with a child. There also wasn't a melodramatic tragedy of me going through chemotherapy.

Yves was the one who should leave instead. He was the one who should be penniless.

I was just afraid that he was diseased—and that he'd infect me.

…

For as long as I've known Yves, he had always been a man of few words. Just when did he start to change?

It seemed to have started when Melissa became his secretary.

"This Mel… whatever her name is, she's so dumb. Didn't you say that she graduated from a top college? Why does it take her days to finish a simple presentation? It's full of typos, too."

That was the first time Yves mentioned Melissa and the first time I had heard him speak about someone with such distaste.

And yet, I was the one who felt inexplicably humiliated.