Goodbye to Yesterday

The spotlights blazed harshly. I stood backstage, clutching the freshly printed new product specification sheet in my hand. Yet my gaze couldn't help but drift toward the VIP section. Quincy Scott was sitting there. My wife, dressed in the champagne-colored gown I'd custom-made for her, looked as elegant as a painting. But the man beside her was leaning down, whispering something in her ear. His hand rested on the back of her chair, their intimate posture stabbing at my eyes. It was Tom Jones, her ex-boyfriend. Three years ago, she'd told me they'd cut all ties completely. My phone suddenly vibrated. A multimedia message from an unknown number. The moment I opened it, my blood almost froze. In the photo, Quincy Scott and Tom Jones were in a hotel room, disheveled and embracing in a kiss. The curtains in the background were my wedding anniversary gift to her. "Morgan, it's your turn to go on stage." My assistant's voice echoed in my ears. I didn't hear it. My mind was flooded with the image in the photo and the intimate scene unfolding before me. A surge of anger erupted from the bottom of my feet, burning away all my reason. I strode over in a few steps and grabbed Tom Jones by the collar. "You b*stard, you're asking for death!" Quincy Scott screamed, trying to pull me away. "Morgan Carter, are you crazy? Let him go!" Crazy? Maybe I was. Watching her defend another man, I felt as if my heart was being crushed tightly. Tom Jones struggled, a contemptuous smile on his face: "Morgan Carter, you're just a joke. Quincy never loved you." That sentence shattered my last line of defense. I raised my fist and punched him square in the face. In the chaos, someone pushed me suddenly. I lost my balance, but my eyes remained fixed on Tom Jones. My hand touched a fallen microphone stand. Almost instinctively, I picked it up and smashed it hard against Tom Jones's ear. A dull thud echoed. The entire venue fell silent instantly. Tom Jones clutched his ear, blood oozing through his fingers. His eyes were filled with terror and disbelief. Quincy Scott's face turned as pale as a sheet, and she collapsed onto her chair. A few minutes later, the police arrived. Cold handcuffs snapped around my wrists. I glanced back at Quincy Scott. She didn't look at me, just bit her lip tightly, her shoulders trembling slightly. The nights in the detention center felt extremely long. The hard bed, the pungent smell of disinfectant. I lay awake, replaying the scene of the press conference over and over in my mind. Regret? Maybe a little. Not for hitting Tom Jones, but for being so impulsive and letting her laugh at me. Early the next morning, a lawyer came. Instead of bail documents, he brought a divorce summons.