His Betrayal in Three Months

The moment the plane touched down, the crispness of the clouds still lingered in my nostrils. I gripped the suitcase handle, my steps light as if I were about to float. After three months of business travel, I was finally back. I hadn't told Tim Lincoln in advance; I wanted to give him a surprise. I'd woken up at four in the morning to simmer his favorite seafood congee. The casserole kept it well-insulated, and it was still emitting a faint wisp of steam. The taxi stopped steadily outside the Lincoln Group building, and I took a deep breath. Three years had passed, and it was still the same—grand revolving doors and polished marble floors. Carrying the thermal bucket, I smiled and walked toward the security post next to the reception desk. "Hello, sir. I'm here to see Tim Lincoln. He's in the top-floor office," I said. The security guard glanced up at me, his expression somewhat subtle. He flipped through the registration book, then looked me up and down for a long while. "Who are you?" his tone carried a hint of distance. "I'm his wife, Wendy Scott," I replied with a smile, thinking he just didn't recognize me. After all, I didn't come to the company often, and when I did before, I swiped my card to go upstairs directly. But the security guard shook his head, his flat words hitting me like a thunderbolt: "I'm sorry, Ms. Scott, you can't enter." The smile froze on my face: "Why? I'm here to see my husband." "Mr. Lincoln is no longer your husband," the security guard's words were like an ice pick piercing my heart. I stood stunned, thinking I'd misheard: "What did you say?" "Mr. Lincoln divorced you last month," the security guard paused, then added, "His current wife is Yvonne Quinton, our company's secretary." Divorced? Yvonne Quinton? These words echoed repeatedly in my mind, buzzing loudly. How could this be? Before I left on my business trip, we were fine. He'd taken me to the airport and hugged me, saying he'd wait for my return. I could even remember the cedar scent on him back then. "Did you make a mistake?" my voice trembled as I clung to the last glimmer of hope. The security guard looked embarrassed: "Ms. Scott, I didn't make a mistake. Everyone in the company knows." Just then, the revolving door slowly opened. Tim Lincoln walked in front, dressed in a suit and tie, as handsome as ever. By his side, a delicate figure was clinging to his arm. It was Yvonne Quinton. She was wearing an exquisite dress, a sweet smile on her face. When she saw me, her smile faltered for a moment, then she hurried over. "Wendy, you're back?" she took my hand, her tone affectionate. I had held that hand countless times before—wiped her tears, given her warmth. "Don't take what the security guard said to heart," she laughed, smoothing things over, "it was just a joke." Looking at the flash of panic in her eyes, I found it extremely ironic. Tim Lincoln also approached, showing no trace of guilt, only impatience. "Why are you here?" his voice was cold, as if addressing a stranger. "I..." I opened my mouth, but my throat was choked with sobs, unable to speak. "Tim Lincoln, is what the security guard said true?" I finally steadied my voice and stared straight at him. He frowned, pulled his hand away from Yvonne Quinton, and looked down at me condescendingly. "So what if it is?" he made no attempt to hide it, "We're already divorced." "Why?" I pressed, my heart feeling as if it had been torn apart. "Why?" he scoffed, his tone filled with disdain, "Wendy Scott, ask yourself that."