The Devoted Husband Act

The thudding sounds inside the room finally stopped.

Moments later, a familiar female voice drifted out, sounding cloying. "Mr. Gibson, can you give me a little extra this time? I want to buy those expensive designer bags, just like your wife does."

That voice belonged to Susan Brown, the underprivileged student I had been personally sponsoring for four years.

My hand froze on the doorknob as a bone-chilling cold instantly seeped from my fingertips straight into my core.

"Don’t compare yourself to her. She’s different," Jason Gibson’s voice rang out, carrying that lazy post-coital tone.

"How is she any different?" Susan let out a sharp, mocking laugh. "Aren't we both just kept by you? The only difference is that she’s older, so it takes a bit more cash to keep her happy."

Jason didn't take the bait. He just grunted in a low voice, "Shut up and go take a shower."

Then came the rustling sound of someone getting dressed, and my hands shook as I backed away from the door.

Those few dozen seconds in the elevator on the way down felt like a lifetime. Back inside my car, I stared at the text message Jason had just sent.

[Hey babe, just wrapped up a long meeting. I transferred a hundred thousand to your account. Get some sleep early tonight. Loving you is my number one priority.]

He even attached a photo of his back as he drank coffee, still pulling off the devoted husband act without batting an eye after what he had done with another woman.

I tapped into my transaction history, watching the numbers climb from ten thousand to fifty thousand, all the way up to three hundred thousand.

It turned out betrayal was subject to inflation, too. The worse he messed up, the bigger the price tag on his indulgence tickets.

A sudden laugh escaped my lips, and tears fell onto the screen without warning.

By the time I pulled myself together and walked through the front door, Jason was sitting on the couch watching TV. He froze when he heard me come in, a flicker of panic flashing across his eyes.

"Babe? Why are you back so soon? Wasn't your training supposed to last two more days?"

He rushed over to wrap me in a hug and shoved a fancy orange gift box into my hands, smiling softly. "Why didn't you tell me you were coming back early so I could pick you up? Look, I picked out this new purse just for you. Do you like it?"

His tone was sickeningly sincere, the smooth performance of a man desperate to patch up the cracks before I noticed them. He didn't want me to find out, and he definitely didn't want me to leave. So he was desperately throwing money around to patch up the cracks.

Jason stroked my hair, his eyes filled with pure affection. "You rest up first. I'm gonna go wash up."

Soon enough, the sound of running water echoed from the bathroom. Right then, his phone on the couch lit up with a new text alert.

It was a photo from Susan. She was posing with a brand-new, million-dollar designer bag.

[Got the bag. Thanks, Jason!]

I looked at the limited-edition piece in her hands, then down at the basic handbag in mine, the tier-entry item sales reps throw in just to meet a purchase threshold. Disgust rushed through me.

I guess what I took as deep affection was really just a mandatory add-on he had to buy for his wife whenever he treated his mistress.

My mind drifted back to that drafty basement apartment years ago, when he wrapped his only winter coat around me and swore he’d treat me right for the rest of his life.

Ten years of history, reduced to a total joke.

I quietly gathered up my stock ownership documents and bank statements, then dialed my lawyer's number.

"Draft divorce papers for me."