The Day I Met My Wife's Real Husband

The woman's voice grew clearer and clearer until the final word reached my ears.

I looked up.

The next second, she was standing by the window. Our eyes met.

I heard a crash. It was the sound of the cup slipping from Quinn Hart's hand and shattering across the floor.

Instantly, everyone's attention turned toward us.

Panic filled Quinn's eyes as she stared at me—filthy, disheveled, and standing on the scaffold.

She parted her lips, about to speak, but Chester Langston stepped forward and cut her off. "Why were you eavesdropping on our conversation? Do you have any professional standards at all? Is everyone here this uncivilized? It's no wonder you're stuck doing this kind of work!

"Where's your boss? I want to file a complaint!"

As Chester spoke, he wrapped an arm around Quinn's shoulders. The look he gave me was filled with smugness and triumph. He recognized me.

My eyes reddened as I stared at Quinn. Finally, under my gaze, she reached out and intertwined her fingers with the man beside her once again, then spoke with displeasure. "Yes. We should file a complaint."

Right in front of me, Quinn personally called property management.

By the time I came back to my senses, my coworkers and I had climbed down from the scaffold and entered the room we'd been working on earlier. Beside the door hung a plaque that read, "Quinn and Chester's Happy Home."

The moment I stepped inside, the first thing I saw was a wedding portrait right in the center of the room, along with photographs displayed throughout the room. In every picture, Quinn smiled brightly, her eyes filled with love.

In our seven years together, we didn't even have a single picture together. She always said she hated having her picture taken.

Once, I secretly snapped a photo of us together. When she saw it, she slapped me without hesitation and roared, "I told you I don't like taking pictures. Can you stop forcing me?"

So, it wasn't that she didn't like taking pictures. She just didn't like taking them with me.

Nearby, I heard Quinn's friends and relatives chatting. "Try this dish. Quinn cooked all of these herself. They're really good."

Instinctively, I looked over. There were nearly 20 dishes on the table, each one looking delicious.

But in my memory, Quinn couldn't cook. The only thing she'd ever made for me was a bowl of oatmeal that wasn't even fully cooked.

"Eat as much as you want. Quinn can cook for you again next time. She's a great cook."

Chester's cheerful voice drifted into my ears. Yet, his eyes remained fixed on me, looking every bit like the master of the house.

"What are you standing there for? Apologize! You were clearly in the wrong. Apologize to them properly!"

One of the property management staff shoved me from behind. I stumbled and fell to the floor.

In front of me lay a medical examination report.

The baby was healthy—healthier than anyone could've hoped for.

And the name "Chester Langston" was written in the column for the child's father. I recognized the handwriting instantly. It was Quinn's.

I jerked my head up and looked at Quinn, every emotion pouring out at that moment. My body trembled uncontrollably as I asked in a shaky voice, "Quinn, are you going to explain yourself?"

But the only response I received was a glass of ice water dumped over my head without the slightest hesitation.

"Explain myself? What do I need to explain? You're the one who ruined our special day. You're the one who should be apologizing to us!"

I froze, staring at her in disbelief. "Quinn, you—"

"Enough." She cut me off impatiently. "Today's such a wonderful day. I won't stoop to your level. Why are you still here? Do you want me to call the police?"