After Divorce, I Rose to Director

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In the fifth year of marrying Frank Collins, the air at home was as cold as if it had frozen solid.

Even the sunlight drifting in from outside carried an unyielding chill; it fell on the floor but could not warm it for a moment.

My name is Whitney Lynn. Five years ago, I married Frank Collins with a heart full of joy, believing we would walk hand in hand through all the years to come.

But now, the warmth we once shared has long since worn away, leaving only silence and suspicion hanging heavily in the air.

Frank's returns home grew later and later.

Before, his clothes carried only a faint smell of smoke; now, they often bore a strange perfumesickeningly sweet and sharp enough to sting my nostrils.

That night, he came in pushing the door just before eleven.

He didn't even look up when changing his shoes, his tone dismissive, as if dealing with an unimportant client: "I was busy with a project at the company today and forgot to message you."

My gaze fell on the cuff of his suit; a long strand of hair with a chestnut sheen was tangled in the buttonhole. That wasn't my hair texturemine was jet black and had never grown so long.

"Were you busy with my sister, Mindy Lynn?" I tried to keep my voice calm.

Frank Collins paused while tying his shoelaces, then tugged at his tie to avoid my gaze: "Yes, she's the project leader now; a lot depends on her taking charge."

Mindy Lynn is my half-sister on my father's side; after my mother passed away and my father remarried, she became a part of this family.

Three months ago, she was suddenly appointed deputy general manager at Frank Collins's logistics company, despite having no experience in the logistics industry, yet she was immediately installed in a high-ranking position.

From that day onward, my marriage with Frank Collins was like a balloon with a small puncturegradually deflating, bit by bit.

During dinner, Frank Collins's phone screen lit up every few minutes.

Each time, he quickly pressed it dark again, his fingertips restless and hurried, betraying a guilt he could not conceal.

"The messages in the company group are quite important." He took the initiative to explain, but his gaze drifted to the edge of the dining table, avoiding my eyes.

I put down my chopsticks, my voice as light as a feather yet heavy with accusation: "Important enough to watch it even while eating? Not even a moment to eat properly?"

"What exactly do you mean?" Frank Collins frowned and immediately raised his voice, "I work hard to earn money to support the family, busy to the point where my feet barely touch the ground every day. Can't you try to understand me more? Must you cling to such a trivial matter?"

This was a phrase he had been repeating often lately.

"Providing for the family"those words became his shield, used to cover every flaw and silence all the questions I wanted to ask.

I said no more, quietly picked up my chopsticks, and continued eating.

The food was still warm, but the warmth in my heart slowly faded.

On the weekend, I thought about tidying up the study.

Frank Collins's desk drawer wasn't fully closed, revealing half a white invoice.

I casually pulled it out, but when I read the contents, it felt as though a heavy weight had struck my chest.

It was an invoice from an upscale Western restaurant, dated conspicuously on our Wedding Anniversary.

The amount spent was considerable, and in the remarks column, it said "Rose Private Room, to be decorated with heart-shaped candles."

I remember clearly that day; he said the company had an urgent project and needed to work overtime, telling me to eat alone at home.

I had simmered his favorite pork rib soup, reheating it three times; by the late hours of the night, the soup was completely cold, yet he still hadn't returned.

That evening when Frank Collins came home, I laid the invoice out flat on the coffee table.

"What is the meaning of this invoice?"

He picked it up and glanced at it; his expression changed instantly, then he forced himself to stay calm: "Oh, I was discussing cooperation with a client and happened to treat the team to a nice meal to help everyone relax."

"Would a client use Mindy Lynn's lipstick to draw hearts on a tissue?" I pointed to another note on the invoice attachment; the small line of text was cramped in the corner but stabbed at me like a needle: "Besides, since when do you need to discuss clients on your Wedding Anniversary?"

Frank Collins abruptly stood up, the legs of his chair scraping loudly across the floor, breaking the silence in the room.

"Whitney, can you stop making such an unreasonable fuss? Mindy is just my subordinate! What's wrong with choosing a nicer place to discuss work?"

"Does a subordinate need you to share a candlelight dinner on our Wedding Anniversary? Does she need heart-shaped candles set up?" I looked at him; our five years of love felt like paper soaked in water at that moment, slowly wrinkling and distorting. "Frank, look me in the eyes and say it againwere you really discussing work that day?"

He avoided my gaze, his chest rising and falling sharply: "I don't want to talk to you! It's utterly irrational!"

After speaking, he grabbed the suit jacket from the sofa and slammed the door with a bang.

That night, he didn't come home.

The next morning, before I had gotten out of bed, the phone rang.

The caller ID showed Mindy Lynn.

"Little sister, don't misunderstand Frank Collins," her voice was as gentle as honey, sweet to the point of cloying. "I was in a bad mood yesterday, heartbroken, and acted recklessly. I dragged him to talk with me; I didn't expect you to overthink it."

"Talking to the point of needing to book a rose-themed private room, decorated with heart-shaped candles?" I retorted, my tone revealing no emotion.

"Ah, that was a decoration gift from the restaurant. We didn't expect it to turn out like this," Mindy Lynn chuckled softly, with a hint of deliberate innocence. "Frank Collins does care about youit's just that you're too sensitive. Between husband and wife, trust is the most important thing."

After hanging up, I stood on the balcony, watching the ceaseless flow of traffic and people below.

The sunlight was blinding, yet I felt a chill running through my whole body.

Trust? Trust is not one-sided indulgence, nor an excuse to be deceived.

From that point on, Frank Collins became even more reckless.

Not only did he often stay out all night, but sometimes he also brought Mindy Lynn's belongings home.

One evening, he came home with an exquisite glass jarits transparent body sealed tightly with a silver lidlooking exceptionally luxurious.

I was wiping the table when my eyes landed on the jar. "What is this?"

"A gift Mindy Lynn brought back from abroadair from S Mountain." Frank Collins' voice brimmed with pride as he carefully cradled the jar, as if it were a rare treasure. "She said this air can lift one's spirits; she brought it especially for me."

I almost laughed out loud.

"When did she go to S Mountain?"

"Last week. She said it was to research the logistics market in a foreign country and took the opportunity to visit the foot of the snowy mountain." Frank Collins said this as he stood on tiptoe, placing the jar in the most prominent spot on the bookshelf, carefully wiping the bottle, "Look how special this is; most people wouldn't be so lucky."

I didn't press further and turned to enter the kitchen.

Last week, Mindy Lynn's social media clearly showed scenes from Q Town, the neighboring city.

In the photo, she stood on a stone bridge, holding an oil-paper umbrella, captioned, "The rain in the ancient town is very gentle," dated clearlylast Wednesday.