A Balloon of Betrayal

Today is the third anniversary of my marriage to Carson Depp. He had reserved the restaurant; the warm yellow light made the roses at the corner of the table appear even more exquisite. The waiter brought over a custom-made cake, with a silver decorative plaque stuck into the chocolate crumbs. Carson smiled and gestured for me to cut the first slice, his eyes filled with his usual indulgence. I took the knife and pressed down, but the blade didn't touch the soft cake beneath; it pierced through a thin layer of rubber first. A chill ran through me as the cold liquid burst forth, dripping down the edge of the cake and soaking the white tablecloth. A water-filled balloon, stealthily concealed at the center of the cake. The tablecloth, placemats, even the cuffs of my sleeves were stained with moisture, and the meticulously arranged dishes bore scattered drops. I froze in place, my fingertips sticky with a blend of cake cream and water. Carson Depp showed no trace of anger; instead, he let out a low, mocking chuckle. He pulled out his phone, photographed the ruined table and my stunned expression, then swiftly typed a message, a brazenly indulgent smile playing on his lips. I don't even need to guess; he sent it to that woman named Heather Wallace. Their ambiguous relationship has long been an open secret in this household. "You're naughty again." Carson Depp spoke into the phone with a tenderness I had not heard from him in a long time, "Wait for me; I'll punish you when I get back." A fierce wave of disgust surged from my stomach, rising straight to my throat. He treated my humiliation as a bargaining chip for flirtation, turning what should have been our anniversary into a farce meant to please his lover. I put down the knife in my hand, my fingertips whitening from the grip. Carson Depp put away his phone and only then realized something was wrong with me. He reached out to touch my hair, but I turned aside to avoid him. "What's wrong? Are you angry?" He furrowed his brow, his tone edged with impatience, yet he still maintained a veneer of calm, "May I scold her later, alright?" I didn't look at him; my gaze dropped to the rose petals at the corner of the table, soaked through with water stains. The petals hung limp and wilted, much like my marriage over these past three years. The thought of leaving grew unshakably resolute in that moment. Tonight, I will leave. No turning back. Carson Depp thought I was merely sulking, spoke a few coaxing words, and, seeing I did not respond, lost patience. He called the waiter to clear the table and did not utter another word to me. On the way back, the car was thick with the silence. Carson Depp focused on driving, occasionally throwing a sidelong glance at me, yet never asked a word. Back at the villa, I went straight upstairs to my room. We had long lived in separate rooms; this was my only corner of refuge in that cold mansion. I opened the wardrobe and began silently packing my bags. Not much is needed—just a few changes of clothes, a book I often read, and the passport I hid away. I had just finished packing my suitcase when there was a knock at the door. "Caroline, open the door." Carson Depp's voice came from outside, tinged with weariness. I ignored him, pushing the suitcase into the corner of the wardrobe and covering it with clothes. After a brief silence, his footsteps faded away. Leaning against the door, my taut nerves finally relaxed slightly. As night deepened, the villa settled into complete silence. I guessed that Carson Depp was already fast asleep, so I picked up my luggage and quietly tiptoed downstairs.