Love's Last Dance in the Typhoon

It was my 30th birthday, and my husband said he had a surprise for me.

However, on the day of my birthday, he was nowhere to be found.

I called him countless times, but no one answered. Just as I was about to panic and consider calling the police, I happened to see a post on the social media feed of his female secretary.

“A typhoon hit, and my boss was worried about my safety, so he personally took me home. How wonderful! I’ve got a guardian angel for myself!”

My anxiety turned to cold calm in an instant. I commented on her post: “Traveling during a typhoon is dangerous. Tell him he doesn’t need to come back.”

Not long after I posted the comment, my husband called. “Kelly, I was only concerned about the safety of my subordinate, and yet you’re thinking such vile thoughts.

“Birthdays come every year. Missing one won’t kill you!”

You were right. Birthdays came every year.

But there was no way I would celebrate them with you.

I hung up in silence as I listened to his reprimand on the other end. Then, alone, I finished the birthday cake for my 30th.

When Casey Lewis finally returned home, he frowned at the sight of the bare room and the empty table.

“Aren’t you celebrating your birthday? Why didn’t you prepare anything?” he asked, irritation creeping into his voice when he saw that there were no decorations in the living room.

I looked up at him with indifference. “Everything suddenly felt meaningless. I don’t feel like celebrating anymore.”

Casey lost his temper. “Are you crazy, Kelly Jones? You called me while I was out and insisted I come home for your birthday. Now that I’m back, you’re telling me you don’t want to celebrate? Are you messing with me?”

I met his gaze, my tone unfeeling. “When did I ever tell you to come home? I said you didn’t need to.”

Casey ignored the detachment in my voice. He sat across from me, continuing his rant.

“How am I supposed to know which of your words to believe? You’re thirty years old, but still clinging to these childish celebrations. I’m always forced to waste my time on whatever you want.”

In the past, I’d put so much effort into decorating the house for our wedding anniversaries and birthdays, carefully preparing a table full of his favorite dishes, all to celebrate together.

Turns out, all that effort was just a waste of his time.

After a moment, he pulled a box out of his bag and tossed it onto the table. “Here. I got you a birthday present. Now stop making such a fuss.”

I opened the box and looked inside. Inside was a scarf—an imported brand-name item—but it was just a free gift offered for customers spending over a hundred thousand at their stores.

Without a word, I threw it straight into the trash.

Casey, seeing what I’d done, kicked the trash can in fury, toppling it. “What are you fussing about, Kelly? Isn’t that your favorite brand? I got it for you specially.”

I looked at him, my face blank. A bitter smile crossed my lips. “You got me a free gift, just for me?”

Casey was momentarily speechless, then muttered defensively, “I’m not good at buying gifts. I just grabbed the first thing I saw. I didn’t know it was a freebie.”

What a terrible liar. Free gifts aren’t displayed for sale. If this had been before, I might have pushed him for answers and demanded to know who he’d been shopping for. However, I no longer cared enough to expose him.

“Let’s get a divorce, Casey,” I said evenly.

“Stop with the nonsense, Kelly. I’ve been working my tail off for this family,” he snapped back.

Once, I would’ve believed that. I’d always made sure our home was in order, letting him focus on work without worry.

That was until half a year ago, when his new secretary, Helena Lorne, added him on Instagram.

Through her posts, I finally learned what Casey was really “working hard” at. In her photos, he was no longer the man who went straight to bed the moment he got home. He was attentive, considerate, romantic—even funny.

Every time I confronted him about it, he brushed it off, saying it was just friendly concern between colleagues. He accused me of being petty, of imagining things, of seeing “filth” where there was none.

I looked him in the eye. “That’s why we should get a divorce. So you can stop working yourself like a dog for me.”

Seeing my seriousness, Casey muttered helplessly, “It’s just a gift. I’ll get you a new one.

“You’re an adult, Kelly. You’d be a laughingstock if people found out you’re losing your marriage over a gift.”