I Divorced Him After Reading His Takeout Note

I picked up my husband's phone to order takeout, only to spot a special note he'd used before.

It read: [My wife's pregnant. Please don't make it too oily or salty.]

My heart plummeted as I glanced toward the bathroom where he showered.

I couldn't fathom why he, who'd insisted on being child-free for years, would suddenly order pregnancy-friendly meals.

Hesitantly, I fumbled through the app's order history with trembling hands.

Dozens of orders sat there, all from a luxury custom pregnancy meal shop, each costing over a few hundred bucks, delivered to his office under his name.

I closed the app and sank into the couch in a daze, staring at my nearly forty-year-old husband with his sharp, toned muscles.

I thought of how he'd suddenly grown obsessed with fitness over the past year.

"Have you been ordering a lot of takeout at work lately?"

I blurted out.

He froze, then turned to me with a soft smile in an instant, "Just occasionally. Why ask? Oh, I'm craving your sandwiches. Make me one for tomorrow's office lunch."

I smiled and agreed, but that takeout note lingered like a thorn in my heart, keeping me tossing and turning all night long.

Duff leaned back against me and fell into a deep sleep in no time.

While he slumbered, I slipped into his study, desperate to find an answer to the unease gnawing at me.

We'd been married for ten years, and he'd always kept his boundaries, never growing too close to other women.

I tried to convince myself that the takeout note was just a terrible misunderstanding.

I attempted to unlock his laptop-our usual password was my birthday, but it was now wrong.

A woman's intuition screamed that something was horribly amiss.

I typed my birthday into the safe's keypad next, and it clicked open.

Inside, a cufflink box lay quiet, and a warm flicker touched my heart.

I'd given him that box after his first big project win.

Even now, with a net worth of hundreds of millions, he'd always said those cufflinks held special meaning for him.

It seemed I'd truly misjudged him.

But the second I opened the box, I froze.

The cufflinks were gone, replaced by a pregnancy test folded into a heart, tucked away like a priceless treasure.

The name on it was Barbara Moore, his late army buddy's wife.

I could barely breathe, staring at the test.

I had no idea when the two, who'd seemed utterly unrelated, had grown close behind my back.

I put everything back in place, feigned ignorance, and returned to the bedroom, lying on the edge of the bed and staring at the ceiling until dawn broke.

In the morning, Duff saw I was awake, hugged me, and pressed a gentle kiss to my forehead, "Babe, did you make the sandwich?"

Before I could reply, his phone screen lit up.

From the corner of my eye, I saw messages from Barbara: [Darling, you promised to make me a sandwich today. Don't forget! I'm waiting for your little treat.]

He glanced at the phone, grabbed the sandwich I'd made from the table, and rushed out without another word.

At that moment, I knew for certain: my husband was in love, and they had an unborn child together.

That explained why his hatred toward sandwiches had suddenly disappeared.

He'd wanted to curry favor with his mistress by using my cooking.

I immediately called my old classmate, a divorce lawyer, "Draft a divorce agreement for me, right now."

Also, find me a reliable private investigator-money is no object."

Five minutes after Duff reached the office, Barbara posted a photo on social media.

The caption read: [My husband's cooking is amazing! He knows I'm pregnant and tired of takeout, so he made my favorite sandwich himself. Jealous?]

I opened the photo-its background was the private lounge in Duff's office, and the sandwich on the table was the one I'd made by hand.

Years ago, he'd had that lounge renovated just for me, even placing a big bed by the window.

He'd promised me then, "Honey, from today on, this is our secret base, just for you and me."

Now he lay on my bed with another woman, eating the sandwich I'd made.

I could bear it no longer.

I liked Barbara's post and commented: [Heard your husband passed away three years ago. When did you remarry? Why didn't you invite me to the wedding?]

Her call came at once, her voice dripping with feigned sorrow, "Maya, you've got it all wrong. I'll explain..."

Duff snatched the phone from her in a hurry, his tone sharp with reproach, "Barbara just wanted to try your cooking. Why are you being so jealous?"

I ignored his excuse and demanded, "When did you two get so close? Why is she in your office? I deserve an explanation."

There was a long silence on the line, then he stammered, "The guys and I agreed to look out for Barbara. She's a single woman, struggling alone."

He added, "I didn't tell you to avoid overthinking. I just gave her a janitor's job at the company. I swear, we're nothing to each other."

After his repeated assurances, I decided to give our ten-year marriage one last chance.

I said to him, "Come home at ten tonight. We need to talk."

A sigh of relief came from the line, and his voice softened to its usual warmth, "Honey, I'm glad you're so reasonable. I'll bring you your favorite cream puffs on the way home."

As soon as I hung up, a message from Barbara popped up: [Maya, do you really believe I'm nothing to your husband?]

I clenched my jaw, forcing down the raging anger in my chest.

I would get the truth from Duff tonight.

Duff was always late.

But tonight, he walked through the door before eight o'clock, a box of cream puffs in his hand.

He was about to hand it to me when Barbara squeezed in behind him.

My face clouded over, and I was about to lose my temper, but Duff wrapped an arm around Barbara's shoulders and smiled at me, "We're all old friends. Barbara made these puffs to apologize to you."

He placed my hand on Barbara's, his tone patient and gentle, "From today on, Barbara is my little sister. That makes her one of our family. Don't be mad, okay?"

Barbara stepped forward affectionately, linked her arm through mine, and pressed a cream puff to my lips, her voice syrupy sweet as she acted coquettishly, "I heard you love cream puffs. I spent the whole afternoon making them. Try one, and your anger will fade away in no time."

The puff touched my lips, and an acrid, burning stench hit my nose, my skin searing with pain.

I shoved her hand away furiously and demanded, "What did you put in this puff?"

Duff didn't notice my distress at all-his eyes were fixed on Barbara, the same loving gaze he'd once given me.

Now, though, there was no room for me in his eyes.

Barbara suddenly clutched her stomach and sank slowly to the floor.

The next second, a pool of bright red blood spread across the carpet.

Her face turned ashen, her voice trembling, "My baby... save my baby."

Duff panicked, lifting Barbara in his arms like a madman and rushing toward the door.

I shouted after his retreating figure, "Duff, if you walk out this door today, we're getting a divorce."

His voice drifted back from the distance, "Honey, I'll come back and explain everything after I make sure Barbara is okay."

The last glimmer of hope in my heart shattered completely.

Duff, you'd lost your chance.

I called my lawyer classmate again, "Tomorrow, I need you to come to the company with me. I'm going to gather all the evidence and prepare for this bigamy lawsuit."

I checked my lip carefully-fortunately, it was just a light touch, the injury not serious.

Barbara had put strong alkali in the cream puffs; her goal was to disfigure me.

I would make her pay for this.

I put on a mask and headed to the company with my lawyer classmate.

The receptionist stopped me at the door, saying I needed to register and make an appointment to enter the CEO's office.

I let out a cold laugh, "You must be new here. I founded this company. Since when do I need an appointment to enter my own building?"

The receptionist looked at me with a playful smirk, then curled her lips into a sneer, "I've never heard of someone like you. If I let everyone in, I'd be neglecting my duties."

I nodded, the words making a bitter kind of sense, then said coldly, "Duff Colgen, your CEO, is my husband. Can I go in now?"

Just then, office workers gathered to watch the commotion, pointing at me and whispering, "What a bold mistress. If Mrs. Colgen finds out, she'll skin her alive."

I frowned, pulled up Barbara's photo on my phone, and asked the receptionist again, "Is this the woman you're talking about?"

She rolled her eyes at me, "Who else would it be, you? Hurry up and leave, before you embarrass yourself when she comes back."

I ignored her and walked straight to the janitor's office.

I pointed at Barbara's photo and asked the cleaning lady to confirm, "Is this woman working in the janitor's department?"

The cleaning lady shook her head, "That's Mrs. Colgen, Mr. Colgen's wife. She's the vice president-he dotes on her. He'd never let her do dirty, tiring janitor work."

At that moment, my heart turned icy.

Before we married, my parents had funded this company for me, but Duff had said he wanted to prove he wasn't useless.

To save his dignity, I'd let him take the CEO's position instead of me.

I'd never imagined that ten years later, he'd bring his mistress into my company and let her play the lady of the house.

If that were the case, I would run these scoundrels out of the company for good.

My lawyer classmate whispered in my ear, "We've got everything on video for evidence. I'm 90% sure we'll win this divorce lawsuit. Leave it to me."

We were about to open Duff's office when a man with glasses blocked our way, "You shameless mistress! Cut your foolish acts, or you'll be sorry."

He rushed over and tore off my mask roughly.

All the onlookers froze in place, and someone whispered, "Isn't that Mr. Colgen's ex-wife?"

My lawyer classmate and I exchanged a glance.

Since when had I been divorced?

I had no idea.

It seemed Duff had been up to a great deal behind my back.

We rushed into Duff's office and used my fingerprint to unlock the lounge's password lock inside.

The entire room was covered in raunchy giant posters, and the man and woman on them were none other than Duff and Barbara.

The wardrobe was filled with all kinds of toys and see-through clothes.

I closed my eyes slowly, fighting to calm my racing heart.

When my lawyer classmate finished filming for evidence and closed the door, my tears finally fell.

This lounge had held ten years of sweet memories between Duff and me.

If I hadn't found that takeout note on his phone by accident, I would have been kept in the dark for the rest of my life.

When I got home and opened the front door, I stopped in my tracks.

Duff was on one knee in front of me, holding a bouquet of red roses.