"I'm home…"
Ethan Carter pushed open the door to his apartment. The lights were off—his wife, Emily, clearly wasn't home.
He glanced at his watch. It was already past 10 p.m.
With a faint sigh, he pulled out his phone and dialed her number.
A cheesy love song blared through the receiver. It rang for nearly two minutes before someone finally picked up.
"What is it?" Emily's voice was cold and impatient.
"Nothing important," Ethan said softly. "Just wanted to ask what time you'll be back."
"Later. It's my girlfriend's birthday—I'm staying with her. If that's all, I'm hanging up."
"Which friend? Where are you—"
"You don't know her, okay? They're calling me, I gotta go."
Click. The line went dead.
Ethan stared at the screen, fists tightening in silent frustration. He wanted to call back immediately—but after a moment's hesitation, he suppressed the urge.
He and Emily had been childhood sweethearts, married for years. Their relationship had once made others envious. But ever since Ethan lost his position as sales manager, her attitude had taken a sharp turn—for the worse.
"Don't push it, Emily. Everyone hits rock bottom at some point. But when I rise again… don't you dare regret it."
Holding down his anger, Ethan walked into the bedroom, grabbed a change of clothes, and headed to the bathroom. But just as he moved past the trash bin, he accidentally knocked it over.
He bent down to pick it up—and froze.
Beneath a wad of tissue paper lay a pair of black lace stockings. Torn.
The damage was unmistakable—a jagged rip ran right through the crotch area.
Ethan's heart skipped a beat. His instincts screamed. That kind of tear… wasn't from ordinary wear.
And then he noticed something else. On both sides of the tear, there were faint grayish-white stains.
A thick, sour odor hit his nostrils when he brought it closer.
That musky, sticky smell. No mistake—it was a man's.
His mind immediately conjured up the scene he'd witnessed last night. Another man. Pressing his wife down. Panting, grunting, leaving behind this disgusting evidence of betrayal.
A wave of nausea and rage surged through him.
"I'm going to kill him… I swear, I'll kill that bastard."
Ethan stormed out of the bathroom and grabbed his phone.
He dialed Emily's number again.
Once.
Declined.
Twice.
Now it was off.
"Cheating scum. Both of you. Just wait."
He collapsed onto the couch, trembling. After a long silence, he pulled out a cigarette and lit it with shaky hands. He usually avoided smoking in the apartment—Emily hated it.
But now?
Now, nothing mattered anymore.
He took a deep drag, eyes filled with fury.
One thought dominated his mind: find the bastard—and destroy him.
Ethan didn't sleep at all that night. Every time he closed his eyes, all he could picture was his wife tangled in someone else's arms, moaning under another man.
By morning, he was hollowed out. But his resolve had hardened.
He would find the man.
And then… he would make him pay.
⸻
The Next Morning
Ethan woke to the harsh beeping of his alarm.
He tried calling Emily again.
Still off.
"Fine. If this is how you want to play it… then don't blame me for going all in."
There was no point staying home. Revenge required patience—and proof.
He forced down a simple breakfast from the vendor downstairs, then hopped onto his scooter and headed to work.
As he walked into the office, clocking in on time, he was immediately greeted by a familiar, grating voice.
"Ethan Carter, this is getting out of hand," said Megan Lang, standing at her office door with arms crossed. "Late on a Monday? And where's the proposal I asked for yesterday?"
Her tone was sharp. Dominating. A complete contrast from the panting, half-naked version of her he'd seen the night before.
"Late?" Ethan chuckled coldly. "There's still one minute left. How exactly is that late?"
He hadn't planned on provoking her.
He used to keep his head down, especially after being demoted. As long as he could keep his job and pay the bills, he didn't care anymore.
But now?
Now that his wife had betrayed him… now that he had seen Megan bent over, moaning beneath their sleazy deputy director…
Why should he keep pretending?
"Still talking back, huh?" Megan's lips curled in anger. "Where's the proposal?"
She was clearly infuriated—perhaps confused as well. Ethan had never stood up to her before.
"I haven't finished it," Ethan said calmly, sitting across from her. "It was the weekend. I'm not being paid overtime."
He glanced up with a smirk. "And if you want to fire me, that's fine. Let's settle my severance package first. I've been here for years. Based on labor law, I'm entitled to at least two years' salary, right?"
Megan froze.
She hadn't expected this Ethan.
This wasn't the submissive pushover she was used to. Not the one who'd silently swallowed every insult—even when his manager title was taken away.
Smack!
She slammed a palm down on her desk, glaring at him.
"Are you out of your mind? You know what you're saying?"
"I'm giving you a graceful exit. Resign now, or I'll make sure you regret staying."
She leaned in, her voice low and venomous. "You think you know how this company works? You think you'll get compensation? Dream on. The legal team eats people like you for breakfast."
But even as she threatened him, Ethan noticed something else—her eyes flickered. She was nervous.
He smiled.
"Oh, Director Lang, you really do have a way with threats. But last night… you weren't quite so intimidating."
Before she could respond, Ethan pulled out his phone.
He tapped the screen.
The video.
He let it play—just loud enough for her to hear her own moans echo from the speaker.
"Before you go on about firing me… maybe you should watch this."
Let's see who has the power now.