ระบบเชฟพาสายลับทำอาหารเลี้ยงชีพ

I could not bear to listen anymore. Having lost the courage to confront him, I turned and fled the club.

The cold wind struck my face, but it was nothing compared to the shock of realizing I was the mistress, and it was a blow as devastating as witnessing Tristan Clarke’s betrayal.

Raised in an orphanage and deprived of love, I had always longed for a home of my own. Yet, I came to realize that the small family I wanted had been built on the ruins of someone else’s home.

I went home in a daze and entered the bedroom. The guilt made me desperate to escape the very home I had once longed for.

As I hastily packed my things, I found a thick photo album that did not belong to me. My hands trembled as I opened it to the first page.

A family portrait stared back at me.

Tristan was holding a little boy, smiling tenderly and contentedly. Beside him stood a gentle-looking woman cradling a little girl, and her face flushed with happiness.

The lower right corner of the photograph showed a date from five years ago.

Only then did I understand. When I thought we were newly married and deeply in love, he already had a family with children.

I flipped through the pages one by one; each photo cut into my heart like a blade.

The family of four went to the beach, to amusement parks, and celebrated birthdays together…

All the times I had pleaded for, the moments he brushed off with excuses about work, he had given to another family.

I suddenly remembered something.

Every Halloween, he would stay out socializing until late and come home drunk. It must have been because he had to spend time with his wife and children first.

In the end, I was nothing more than the hidden, embarrassing secret he had to entertain.

Tears spilled down my face, falling onto the photo album and blooming into damp stains.

I slammed it shut, rushed into the walk-in closet, and stuffed my clothes into a suitcase in a frenzy.

Everything in this place made me sick to my stomach.

Just as I was dragging my suitcase toward the door, Tristan stumbled in, reeking of alcohol.

He dropped onto the sofa and rubbed his temples.

“Babe, come massage my head. It hurts so much,” he said, his voice hoarse from drinking, still clinging to his usual dependence on me.

I remained motionless where I stood.

He seemed mildly irritated and muttered, “Oh, right. Bring me those two boxes of Halloween sweets. I’m heading out later.”

My heart seized painfully.

It was two custom boxes of rich custard-filled Halloween sweets. For five years, it had always been the same.

Whenever I asked, he would dismiss it lightly, holding me close and saying they were for networking and important clients.

They had to be for his two children, one box each. How thoughtful a father he was.

I turned to face the man on the sofa. When I spoke, my voice trembled despite my efforts to steady it. “Tristan, is there something you’ve been keeping from me?”

He opened his eyes in confusion. They were still hazy with drunkenness.

Noticing my cold expression, he pushed himself upright and opened his arms toward me. “What’s wrong? Are you having another little tantrum?”

He reached out to pull me into his arms. His tone was affectionate but perfunctory.

“Alright, don’t be like that, babe. Hasn’t it always been the same every year? I promise I’ll come back early tonight to be with you, okay?”

Yes, it had been the same every year. He had been lying to me for five years. To him, it was as effortless as breathing.

I shoved his hand off my waist, grabbed the photo album on the coffee table, and hurled it at his feet.

“Cut the act, Tristan Clarke. You disgust me!”