I Drove My Cheating Husband to His Grave

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The day I discovered my husband, Leo, was cheating, his health report arrived, confirming a severely weakened heart.

The doctor repeatedly warned me: Your husband must avoid any strong emotions, especially when it comes to sex. He needs to abstain, or risk sudden death.

I nodded, but the moment I was out of sight, I tore up the report.

After that, I played the role of the tender wife, pretending ignorance of his affair, even deliberately creating opportunities for him to cheat.

Until one night, Leo died of sudden cardiac arrest while he was with his mistress, Eve.

Holding the autopsy report, I faced a sobbing Eve and said,

"You murderer, I'll see you locked up for life!"

Watching Eve's terrified, panicked face, I couldn't help but smile to myself.

His inheritance, plus Eve's compensation, would soon all be mine.

Our seemingly perfect, middle-class life, envied by outsiders, crumbled today.

Blown to pieces by two packages that arrived simultaneously.

One was a thick envelope from a private investigator, filled with countless photos.

My husband, Leo, walking hand-in-hand through the mall with a younger woman, kissing passionately in front of his car, and even entering a discreet adult hotel together.

The photos were blindingly clear. The woman's face was radiant, captivatingdisplaying a brazen vulnerability and dependence I had never once shown Leo.

The dates ranged from six months ago to just yesterday.

The other package was from the City Medical Center, containing Leo's comprehensive health report.

I had been casually flipping through it until my eyes landed on the cardiovascular section: severe coronary artery atherosclerosis, critical stenosis.

Warning: Extremely high risk of acute myocardial infarction. Immediate intervention recommended. Avoid emotional agitation, excessive fatigue, overeating

Avoid emotional agitation?

I looked at the warning in the health report, then back at Leo's flushed face in the photos, eyes gleaming with excitement as he held that woman around the waist.

A frantic thought took root.

The blade of betrayal and the gravedigger's shovel C both handed to me at the same time.

The world fell silent for a moment. Then, a strange calm mixed with excitement enveloped me.

I didn't cry, didn't make a scene, didn't even feel the expected heartache. Only a cold, hard thing named revenge quietly solidified within me.

Well, Leo, you're having so much fun out there, but what happens when you burn yourself out?

As your lawful wife, it's my duty to help you replenish your energy, isn't it?

I picked up the health report, carefully tucking it into the bottom drawer. Then, I shredded the unbearable photos.

Afterward, I put on my apron and started preparing dinner.

The rich aroma of roasted pork ribs wafted from the kitchen C Leo's favorite, but also precisely the kind of dish the doctor had strictly warned him to avoid.

At seven sharp, Leo came home. His shirt collar had a smudge of glaring fuchsia lipstick.

He handed me his briefcase as usual, his tone carrying a subtle hint of perfunctory dismissal: "Lots of company stuff today, I'm exhausted."

I greeted him, taking his bag, my smile impeccably gentle: "You work so hard, Leo. Go wash up, I made your favorite roasted pork ribs, and I opened a nice bottle of wine to help you unwind."

Leo looked at me with a touch of surprise, apparently not expecting this reaction.

He probably anticipated an interrogation or a cold war. After all, just yesterday we had a huge fight because he'd "worked late" until dawn again.

But he was quickly drawn in by the aroma, a familiar, somewhat entitled look of satisfaction spreading across his face: "You're so good to me."

I watched him devour the thick, glossy pieces of meat slathered in sauce, watched him drain the wine glass I had filled. The stagnant pool in my heart stirred, a ripple of greasy satisfaction spreading through it.

Eat, drink, my dear husband.

This is only the beginning. Your good times are still to come.

On the surface, I remained Freya, the gentle, considerate wife. But in the shadows, I became the most patient hunter, weaving Leo's fate inch by inch with silken threads of tenderness.

Our daily meals were completely revamped, all under the guise of "nourishment."

Breakfast was no longer oatmeal and whole wheat toast, but sizzling bacon and eggs, paired with crispy, buttered white toast, and a high-sugar, full-fat chocolate milk.

Leo ate with a wide smile, praising my cooking and saying I'd become more "caring."

"Darling, you work so hard every day, so much brainpower. You need quality fats and protein."

I refilled his bacon, watching his slightly bruised eye bags with feigned concern.

"Your complexion still doesn't look great lately. Is work stress too much? How about I fry you a steak tonight to give you a boost? That's the most nourishing."

Leo mumbled a reply, eyes glued to his phone, fingers flying across the screen, a subtle smile playing on his lips.

I didn't need to guess who was on the other end.

My heart felt dipped in ice water, but the smile on my face grew even softer.

Dinner was the main event.

Lamb chops, steak, foie gras, ice cream a rotating feast.

Fats and sugars are silent killers for the cardiovascular system, and I, with my own hands, disguised these assassins as a feast of love, feeding them spoonful by spoonful into my husband's mouth.

He ate until his mouth was greasy, occasionally touching his chest and saying, "A bit rich, I feel bloated."

I would immediately hand him a pre-prepared strong coffee or fresh juice, saying softly,

"Drink some coffee to cut through the richness, and juice for vitamins. Your stomach's just a bit sensitive since you don't go out much. You'll get used to it after a few more times. It's all for your health."

Occasionally, he'd cast a scrutinizing glance my way, but it would always melt under my impeccable concern.

The real 'extra meals' happened late at night.

Leo's "overtime" became increasingly frequent and late.

Before, he would at least come up with plausible excuses. Now, it was almost just a notification.

I never pressed him. Instead, when he returned late at night, reeking of booze and cheap perfume, collapsing onto the sofa and complaining of exhaustion, I'd tie on my apron and head into the kitchen.

Ten minutes later, a steaming bowl of instant ramen, topped with a golden fried egg and a few slices of spam, shimmering with oil,

or a generously portioned microwave pizza, loaded with stretchy cheese, would be placed before him.

"You're back so late, you must not have eaten properly. Going to bed on an empty stomach is bad for you, hurry and eat something while it's hot."

I sat opposite him, propping my chin on my hand, my eyes so gentle they could melt.

"I also brewed a pot of strong coffee for you, to perk you up. You don't want to get sleepy after eating, do you? Don't you still have emails to deal with?"

Leo usually had already had a late-night snack in Eve's "love nest," but faced with my earnest care, plus the energy drained by his illicit affair, he often managed to force down a considerable amount more.

High-salt, high-fat late-night meals, combined with the stimulating caffeine, forcibly awakened his nerves in the dead of night. His heart raced, his face flushed.

Several times, after eating, he'd irritably tear open his collar, pacing the living room and complaining, "Damn it, I'm stuffed and wired, can't sleep now."

At this, I'd slip on the running jacket and shoes I'd conveniently left by the sofa, my eyes bright:

"Can't sleep? Let's go for a night run! The doctor said moderate cardio is good for sleep and strengthens your heart and lungs. I'll go with you!"

Leo was initially resistant, but he couldn't resist my persistent coaxing.

Sometimes I'd say things like, "Look, your belly's getting a bit soft. Running will help you stay in shape. I love it when you have abs," half-coaxing, half-encouraging.

His deep-seated male chauvinism and vanity were completely satisfied.

So, at one or two in the morning, the figures of us, the "loving" couple, began appearing on the quiet streets outside our neighborhood.

Of course, I couldn't really run. After a few hundred meters, I'd stop, breathless, leaning on a streetlamp, waving him on:

"Honey I can't go on, you're you're so fit You keep running, I'll wait for you here and cheer you on!"

Leo's vanity swelled under my admiring gaze and the occasional surprised, somewhat envious looks from passersby.

He was like a spinning top whipped by an invisible lash, running furiously under my watchful eye, on the silent streets.

I could see the veins bulging in his neck, hear his increasingly heavy, bellows-like breathing.

Meanwhile, I'd slowly walk to the 24-hour convenience store, buy two energy drinks, then sit on a bench by the roadside, taking out my phone.

The screen displayed real-time data from his health app.

Heart rate: 158, 162, 165 constantly climbing, hovering near the danger zone.

When he finally finished one or two laps, sweat-soaked and purple-faced, returning to my side, I'd immediately rush up, wipe his sweat with a towel, hand him a drink, my face full of concern:

"Darling, you've sweated so much, you must have burned a lot of energy. Are you hungry? There's a BBQ joint still open over there, shall we grab something to replenish your strength? If you don't refuel after exercise, you'll lose muscle."

And so, Leo, fresh from his "healthy" night run, would once again find himself at a smoky BBQ joint, eating greasy grilled meat and drinking ice-cold beer.

I watched him with a smile, as he consumed those high-salt, high-fat, high-purine foods.

A few scattered late-night diners and the BBQ joint owner all looked on with admiration.

"Buddy, you're a lucky man! Your wife's gorgeous and so thoughtful. She even works out with you late at night and then feeds you!"

"Not many couples work out together like you two these days. Such a great relationship!"

Leo, puffed up by these compliments, guzzled his beer, arm around my shoulder, boasting to onlookers, "That's right, my wife's one of a kind!"

I leaned into his embrace, smiling as I accepted everyone's praise, my fingers subtly tapping my phone screen, checking his health app data from an angle he couldn't see.

His daily diet was the high-load foundation. My 'loving' late-night snacks added fuel to the fire.

The ill-timed night runs were the final straw. And the BBQ and beer after his workout? The perfect, deadly cycle.

Every step was filled with a wife's profound concern for her husband's health. Every step pushed his already fragile heart closer to the brink of collapse.

A neighbor lady bumped into me at the supermarket and complimented me:

"You look so well lately, dear. Must be your husband making you happy. I see him running every night, he's got more energy than a twenty-year-old!"

I smiled shyly: "Oh, he's just restless. But exercise is always good, and I support him."

I supported him. Yes, I supported him more than anyone, towards the 'healthy' end I had so meticulously prepared for him.

My physical care was meticulous, and I never relaxed my mental and physiological manipulation either.

However, from the day I confirmed his affair, my body had completely shut him out.

Every touch physically repulsed me.

But that didn't stop me from keeping him in a state of insatiable hunger, high arousal, yet utterly unsatisfied by me.

I began deliberately changing my information consumption habits.

My browser history would occasionally show pages for adult novelty stores and niche lingerie brands.

The search bar on my shopping apps would be filled with keywords like 'sexy,' 'seductive,' 'couple's intimacy.'

Big data algorithms are ruthless and efficient. Soon, not just my phone, but the shared household tablet, and even Leo's own phone, began popping up with related recommendations.

Ads for barely-there lingerie, promotions for all sorts of bizarre products, and even short video clips disguised as 'tutorials' but actually quite explicit.

At first, Leo would awkwardly swipe them away, scolding: "What kind of rubbish are you looking at all day?"

But the light in his eyes didn't lie.

I wouldn't argue, simply responding in a shyer, more innocent tone: "Oh, I just clicked on it by accident. This big data is so annoying"

My tone and expression were like a child who had just discovered a new world, both scared and curious.

This blend of innocence and forbidden suggestion was more impactful than any direct seduction.

Leo's Adam's apple bobbed. His gaze at me grew complex, holding surprise, suspicion, but mostly an undeniable, aroused desire.

I created a new, anonymous social media account, with no connections to anyone we knew. Then, I 'accidentally' let Leo discover it.

Consequently, bolder, more explicit images, links, and short videos began to 'casually' appear in our lives.

I never said, "Let's try this." I just asked, "Does this look good?" or "Is this useful?" leaving the space for choice and imagination entirely to him.

His body, ravaged by alcohol, high-fat diets, and irregular sleep, secreted untimely hormones of excitement.

I knew he forwarded most of those pictures and links to Eve.

Because I had inadvertently seen Eve's replies pop up on his phone: "You devil, so kinky?!"

"Buy it! I want the black one!"

"This looks wild, let's try it next time!"

Their interactions, thanks to my unseen contribution, grew more passionate, more brazen.

I could even imagine how Eve was using these 'new toys' to desperately please and bind Leo to her.

This was exactly what I wanted.

However, merely adding fuel to their fire from afar wasn't enough. I needed this fire to burn more wildly, consuming him even faster.

The opportunity soon arose.

Eve was even more impulsive than I'd imagined.

Perhaps my changes made her feel threatened, or maybe Leo's recent physical discomfort made him less capable, causing her anxiety.

She actually used a seemingly ordinary anonymous account to send me a SnapChat friend request. The message read: "Hey, thinking of trying out some new skincare? Let me know!"

I looked at the profile picture and name and almost burst out laughing.

Such a petty trick.

I clicked "Accept."

She started sending me occasional skincare ads, her tone enthusiastic and humble.

I would occasionally reply with a bland "Hmm," or "I'll take a look," my attitude cool but polite.

I posted on Ins, setting the privacy to 'custom visibility,' meaning only she could see it.

The first photo was a lavish dinner I had cooked, captioned:

"Hubby's been working hard lately, so I'm nourishing him. He ate all of my loving dinner!~"

The second was a profile shot of me wiping Leo's sweat after his run, captioned:

"Accompanying hubby on his night run. Even though he's fast, I'll always be at the finish line waiting for him."

The third showed a corner of our closet, vaguely revealing an adult novelty item, captioned:

"Oh dear, my package arrived by accident, so embarrassing I'll surprise him when he gets back!"

Every Ins post was precisely targeted.

Sure enough, Leo's "overtime" hours suddenly increased, and the timing became even more ridiculous. Sometimes he wouldn't come home all night.

When he returned, his face bore the exhaustion of overindulgence, his eyes bruised, but his spirit had an unnatural high.

Besides his usual cologne, he sometimes carried the mixed scent of cheap essential oils or other strange fragrances.

And whenever he received certain calls, looking hurried and about to leave, I would express just the right amount of disappointment, but quickly replace it with an understanding smile.

"More overtime? Go on, don't work too hard."

Or, before he left, I would gently pull him back, my face flushed, saying in a voice only we could hear:

"My my new nightgown arrived. Will you come home early tonight?"

The most spectacular incident was on Leo and Eve's one-year anniversary.

That afternoon, I posted an Ins story visible only to Eve: an old photo of Leo and me, captioned:

"It's that day again. Thank you, darling, for always being there. See you at our usual spot tonight~"

Then, I pre-booked Leo for dinner at home, telling him I'd learned to make his favorite fondant cake, a complex process, and he absolutely had to come home for it.

At seven sharp, Leo arrived home, looking restless.

I pulled him to sit down, fed him a bite of cake, my eyes as soft as water.

Just as he picked up his spoon, his phone began to vibrate wildly. It was Eve.

He glanced at it, his face subtly changing, and hung up. The phone rang again. He hung up again, and it rang once more.

I looked at him, surprised: "What's wrong? Urgent company matter?"

Leo stammered: "No just a difficult client."

"Then pick up, don't delay important business," I said thoughtfully.

He awkwardly walked to the balcony and answered the call.

The soundproofing was good, but I could still hear his low, anxious voice.

"...I know what day it is! But I really can't leave right now! Stop making a scene, okay?! What Ins post? You saw it wrong! That was an old one! Hello? Eve! Hello!"

He slumped, lowering the phone, and turned to see me watching him silently, still holding a soup spoon.

His face was a mix of embarrassment, guilt, and unvented frustration.

"Darling, I" he tried to explain.

But I smiled faintly, interrupting him: "Was that Eve? She sounds very anxious to find you. Is today some important day for you two?"

Leo looked as if he'd been struck by lightning, his face instantly draining of color.

Without waiting for his answer, I put down the spoon, my voice still calm, even tinged with a weary tolerance: "Go on, don't keep her waiting. I'll save the soup for you."

In that moment, the expression on Leo's face was priceless: the panic of being exposed, guilt towards me, and fury at Eve's ill-timed theatrics.

But he eventually grabbed his jacket and rushed out of the house, without even a proper explanation.

I knew that when he left, he would face an Eve completely out of control, driven by jealousy and insecurity.

Appeasing her would require ten times the energy and effort than usual.

Indeed, Leo didn't return until well past midnight, dragging himself in, even more exhausted, reeking of stale smoke and booze, an air of despondency clinging to him.

He saw the living room light still on. I was curled up on the sofa, seemingly asleep, covered by a thin blanket, the TV playing some boring late-night show.

He paused, then tiptoed over, his eyes filled with genuine remorse.

He wanted to touch me, but didn't dare.

I stirred at the opportune moment, rubbed my eyes, and seeing him, offered a tired yet soft smile: "You're back? Want some more cake?"

"No, Freya!" He grabbed my hand, his voice hoarse, "I'm not hungry. Why why aren't you in bed?"

"Waiting for you," I whispered, with just the right touch of grievance and dependence.

My lack of argument, my waiting, my fatigue, my forced tenderness in my eyesthey were like countless needles pricking his dwindling conscience.

He felt an unprecedented wave of guilt, a guilt that demanded immediate atonement.

"I'm sorry, Freya, I" He stammered incoherently.

Then, as if finding an outlet, he hastily added: "I'll clean the kitchen! You go rest!"

He rushed into the kitchen, clumsily started washing the pots and pans I had deliberately left, splashing water everywhere.

After tidying up, he noticed the floor was a bit dirty. Without a word, he grabbed the mop and started cleaning the floor.

After doing all this, his energy still had nowhere to vent. Or rather, guilt compelled him to do more to compensate.

"Freya, you look pale. You haven't been exercising. How about we do some yoga? I'll join you!" He pulled out the dusty yoga mat.

In the dead of night, after finishing chores, he started exercising again. His breathing quickly grew heavy once more, sweat beading on his forehead.

After a few awkward yoga poses, he was still wide awake. Or rather, he dared not sleep. He was afraid if he closed his eyes, he'd see me, quietly waiting, or Eve's hysterical face.

"How about we watch a movie? A horror film? That'll wake us up." he suggested, his eyes bloodshot.

So, at three in the morning, we sat on the sofa, watching a horror movie with jarring sound effects and gory visuals.

The screen's light illuminated his pale, agitated face. With every sudden scare, his body jerked, his heart pounded like a drum.

I leaned against him, feigning fear, gripping his arm, feeling the abnormal, violent throbbing of the veins beneath his skin, and his increasingly ragged breaths.

As he stared intently at the screen, gasping in fear at the plot, I smiled coldly.

Look how hard my husband works. Working hard to juggle two women, working hard to burn away what little health he had left.

And I, I just quietly accompanied him,

Until he completely burned out.