Chapter 10: The Woman He Really Loved

Lillian is Derek’s first love, the girl he’s never let go of.

I learned this half a year after marrying him.

I married him in my last semester of college. Even though I’d latched onto his golden ticket, my lifelong experience of being treated unfairly made me feel safer relying on myself.

So I refused his mother’s offer to be a full-time housewife, to accompany her shopping, and instead went to intern at a company.

The internship was tough. My boss was a jerk, and another intern was a rich kid, so I did all the work while she took most of the credit.

Every day felt like an episode of "The Office"—awkward, petty, and exhausting. The break room coffee was always burnt.

Derek was outstanding in every way.

He glided through life like nothing could touch him. People whispered about him in the halls, but he never noticed—or cared.

I’d never been in love. After marrying and sleeping with him, I inevitably fell for him.

He smelled like expensive cologne and crisp laundry. I found myself waiting for his texts, holding my breath whenever his car pulled up outside.

So the grievances from my internship would vanish when I saw him.

I thought, with such an excellent husband, what did I have to be sad about?

One night, after working late, I came home to find Derek showering in the bathroom.

The apartment was quiet. I heard the spray of water and the faint sound of NPR drifting from his phone. I sat on the bed, unsure if I should change into pajamas or wait for him.

He often traveled for business and rarely came home. Even when he did, he was polite but distant.

He’d leave his suitcase by the door, check his emails on the couch, barely say two words. Still, I was happy when he was home.

I sat on the bed, nervous, waiting for him to finish his shower.

While I waited, his phone, tossed on the bed, rang.

The screen lit up with an international number. I hesitated, remembering all the times he told me not to bother him when he was working.

The shower was still running. I went to the door and called him, wanting to tell him his phone was ringing, but he didn’t answer.

I picked up the phone and saw it was a foreign number. Derek had many business partners abroad, so I thought it was one of them.

As his legal wife, I thought I had the right to answer.

But when I picked up, a girl’s flirty, drunken voice came from the other end.

The voice was young, teasing—American with a hint of British boarding school polish. I was stunned and asked, "Who are you?"

But the girl was even more shocked:

"Who are you? Why do you have Derek’s phone?"

She called him Derek—a name I’d never dared use, even in moments of intimacy, but she said it so naturally.

I steadied myself and replied, "Hello, I’m Derek Mallory’s wife. May I ask who you are?"

The girl seemed to hear something unbelievable. Just as I was about to say more, the shower stopped.

Derek rushed out in just a towel and snatched the phone from me.

His eyes were ice. I remember his cold gaze, looking at me like I was a stranger.

"Why did you touch my phone?"

His voice was flat, but the message was clear: I’d crossed a line I didn’t even know existed.