And strangely, each time I went on a business trip, Ryan just happened to relapse.
At first, I forced myself to ignore these coincidences—until that day I came home from a trip.
Pushing open the bedroom door, I found Ryan tightly holding Claire in his arms on our marital bed.
Claire looked up at me, her eyes calm and utterly unapologetic.
“I only see Ryan as a younger brother. He was ill, and I was comforting him.”
Not even the effort to make an excuse.
In that moment, I finally understood—she had never cared about my feelings.
When I returned later, Claire had already gone out.
As I stepped into the bedroom, Ryan jumped up from the bed, still wearing a new pair of briefs Claire had bought for me.
“Ethan, I’m sorry. After my parents died, the only warmth I’ve ever felt is when I’m with Claire.
This morning, when she got a call from the lawyer, she cried and rushed to the firm. She still cares about you, deep down.”
I glanced at the wrinkled bedsheets—two pillows clearly indented.
Ryan kept rambling, but I couldn’t help sneering at his manipulative act.
“Drop the pretense, Ryan. Isn’t our divorce exactly what you want? If you feel like laughing, go ahead—holding it back must be painful.”