When My Husband Got HIV, I Smiled

The bed was in complete disarray, used condoms scattered across the floor, the air still heavy with the remnants of intimacy.

I didn’t look at Andy Lowe. I put on a mask and pushed the window open.

He lounged against the bed, exhaling smoke, letting out a soft chuckle.

“Why are you keeping quiet today? Not gonna make some noise about divorce anymore?”

I felt his gaze settle on my back. My fingers paused on the window frame for a beat before I pushed it all the way open.

“I’ve thought it through.”

He snorted, laughing under his breath.

“About time.”

He got out of bed at an unhurried pace and started getting dressed.

“In families like ours, marriage doesn’t mean much anyway. It’s always been everyone doing their own thing. You accepting it makes things easier for everyone.”

I turned around.

Four years into the marriage, he was still handsome, that careless, nothing-ever-matters air about him remaining fatally attractive to young women.

“Tonight?” I asked.

“I won’t be back.”

He fastened his belt and glanced at me. “What—today’s some big day?”

I shook my head. “No.”

He shrugged, casually picking up the watch from the bedside and putting it on.

It was the birthday gift I’d given him last year, a luxury custom piece that took six months to make, one of a kind in the world.

At the door, he suddenly stopped, as if remembering something.

“We’re out of condoms at home. Remember to restock.”

“Okay.”

I stood by the window, watching his car cut across the garden.

Then I picked up my phone and dialed.

“Come in and take care of it.”

Five minutes later, three cleaners in full protective gear entered the room.

They moved with practiced efficiency, sealing each item from the floor one by one, disinfecting every inch of the room with high-strength solution, stripping all the bedding and sealing it away.

The middle-aged woman leading the team nodded at me. “Miss Scott, everything has been handled according to the highest standards. Please rest assured.”

“Good. I trust your work. This bedroom needs to be thorough. I want zero risk of infection after the cleanup.”

“Understood.”

I left the room and closed the door.

The hallway lighting was soft, the dark floors reflecting a faint sheen, my wedding photos hanging along the wall.

In the picture, I was smiling brightly.

Andy was holding me, his expression gentle and attentive.

Back then, we had truly been husband and wife.

Now, beneath the photo, there were traces left by a stranger’s lipstick.

Those people were also the reason I lost two children, and any chance of ever conceiving again.

Downstairs, a cake box sat on the coffee table.

I took out the candles and lit them.

Andy remembered that girl’s birthday.

But he had forgotten that today was also my birthday and our fifth wedding anniversary.

The flames flickered. I watched them for a long time, then blew them out.

Yes. I had thought it through.

What was divorce, anyway?

I wanted his inheritance—his money, power, and reputation. I wanted it all.

For the next several days, Andy didn’t come home.

Instead, that girl sent me messages and videos on schedule every day.

[Andy said I’m the woman he wants to be with.]

[He said he got sick of you a long time ago.]

[He’s not coming back again tonight. Are you lonely by yourself, Ellen? Feeling empty?]

I didn’t reply. I took my medication on time, rested, and went to a private hospital for checkups.

I only had my assistant categorize and archive every screenshot.

On the sixth day, Andy called me.