5

On the day Florence returned, Bradley didn't come home all night. I called him, but his phone was turned off. Maybe he had some urgent work that he couldn't get away from. I comforted myself with this thought, making excuses for him, but I was also deceiving myself. If the company really had a major problem that required the president to step in and resolve, he wouldn't have gone to such lengths to avoid me. I dared not think further, dared not consider the worst-case scenario. “Ding.” My phone popped up a Instagram friend request notification, and I clicked “accept” without thinking. After accepting, the other party didn’t say a word. I clicked into her Moments, and my mind froze for a second. 【It’s so good to see you right after returning home, so happy!】 The hands resting on the steering wheel in the photo—I recognized them instantly as Bradley’s. It’s ironic that the watch he was wearing that day was the one I had carefully selected for him. I studied the photo repeatedly, zooming in and out, until I focused on his left hand. The ring finger that had once worn a wedding ring was now bare, with only a faint imprint remaining. I collapsed onto the sofa, sitting there motionless all night until dawn. Bradley had finally returned. I stared at him blankly. He glanced at me in surprise for a moment before shifting his gaze away and casually explained, “There was something at work yesterday, so I couldn’t leave.” “If there was something at work, then why was Florence there too?” I blurted out. Bradley paused mid-sip, his tone both stiff and impatient: “She just returned to the country. Can’t old friends meet up? You’re being unreasonable!” He didn’t linger any longer and stormed out. After that unpleasant incident, we went through a period of cold war. Perhaps because I was used to compromising, I wanted to take the initiative to ease the relationship between us, so I took lunch to Bradley's company. The front desk recognized me and knew I was the president’s wife, so I was able to proceed smoothly. When I arrived at the president’s office, the secretary rushed out, her face looking uneasy. I ignored her and pushed open the door. I saw Bradley patiently cutting lobster, while Florence sat in his chair, propping her chin up with her hand and chatting with him. The ambiguous atmosphere between the two made me feel like an outsider, like a vicious mistress who broke up a couple. I stared at Bradley's hands, and suddenly felt a surge of acid in my stomach, an inexplicable nausea. “You... why are you here?” Bradley didn't look up, asking casually. “If she can come, why can't I?”