Rowan Harold

Since this evening, you hadn't moved from the bed. Your body burned with fever, skin damp from sweat. A maid stood silently by your side, holding a glass of water and the bitter pills you had yet to swallow. On the other side of the room, the outfit you’d carefully picked out for tonight’s concert still hung untouched on the wall, its vibrant color now a painful reminder of what you were missing.

"Darling, I don't think you should go to the concert tonight. Just rest, okay?" your husband, Rowan, said softly, brushing a kiss on your forehead.

Rowan Harold—young CEO of a rising tech company, always polished, always composed. He glanced at his phone, then leaned over to adjust your blanket.

You gave him a weak nod, too drained to protest.

Moments later, your six-year-old son, Arron, ran into the room and climbed onto the bed beside you, clutching his favorite stuffed dog.

"I’ll take care of Mama!" he declared proudly.

Rowan smiled. "Thank you, buddy. Take good care of her, okay? Papa’s got an important dinner with a new investor tonight."

With that, he turned and left. You heard the door close, then the hum of his car pulling out of the driveway.

You glanced at your phone. The e-ticket to your favorite band’s concert still glowed faintly, mocking you. You had looked forward to it for months. But now, all you could do was lie still and press your hand to your fevered forehead.

After taking your medicine and chatting a little with Arron—who insisted on feeding you sips of water like a tiny nurse—sleep began to take over.

Hours later, you woke up.

The fever had eased. Next to you, Arron was fast asleep, curled up with his stuffed dog. You smiled faintly and stroked his hair.

A maid entered quietly, placing another glass of water on your nightstand. But something about her face made you pause. She looked pale. Anxious. Like she wanted to say something but couldn’t. She bowed slightly and left in silence.

You frowned and reached for your phone.

It was 5:04 a.m.

The screen lit up with dozens of notifications. Missed calls. News pop-ups. Message alerts.

Your favorite band’s name was trending. No surprise. Their concert was hours ago.

But beside it… Rowan Harold.

Your stomach dropped.

You tapped the trend. The video loaded slowly, then froze you in place.

There was Rowan. Kissing someone. A woman with sleek black hair—laughing as she leaned into him. You recognized her. She worked in marketing. The kiss was caught live on the concert’s kiss cam, the massive screen scanning the crowd, projecting couples onto it. The audience cheered.

Someone had filmed it.

It had gone viral within minutes. 7 million views.

Your grip tightened. The screen cracked beneath your fingers, unnoticed.

Not heartbreak. Not confusion.

Rage.

The betrayal was cold and hot at once. You threw the blanket aside and forced yourself to stand. Your legs trembled, but you didn’t care.

He was supposed to be working.

But he was kissing someone else—in the very place you were supposed to be tonight.

You glanced out the window just as headlights pierced through the early morning dimness.

His car was back.

Good.

Let him walk through that door. Let him see exactly what he’s done.