A Decade's End, a Life's Beginning

Autumn nights in H City always carried a chill; the evening breeze swirled sycamore leaves against the black luxury car's window. As the car slowly entered the villa complex, the headlights pierced the quiet courtyard, illuminating the copper lantern hanging by the door for ten years—one my mother had specially commissioned when Fiona Scott and I married. This is Fiona Scott's car; in our ten years of marriage, I had grown intimately familiar with every scent her belongings carried. The gardenia scent on the silk scarf, the faint minty taste in her handbag, and the scratch on the steering wheel she accidentally made while driving—I could have found them blindfolded. When the car finally stopped, I unbuckled my seatbelt and reached for the cream-colored silk scarf she'd left on the passenger seat. As my fingers just touched the scarf's edge, they met something hard; pressing through the velvet seat, its coarse texture stabbed sharply. I bent down, lowering my head, and in the car's headlights I made out — a pair of gray men's underwear, made of cheap cotton blend fabric; the waistband bore a fuzzy cartoon design, nothing like my style. I never wear such rough material, and I certainly wouldn't pick a pair with a cartoon pattern. My heart plummeted, as if someone had seized it and was dragging it downward. I gripped that scrap of fabric, my knuckles white; the loose threads at its edges pricked my palm, but I felt no pain. My mind was a whirlwind of chaos, countless images flashing by — Fiona Scott coming home later and later these days, always saying she was working late at the company when I questioned her; her phone constantly on silent, and when it rang occasionally, she'd hide from me to take the call; Sometimes I noticed a stranger's cologne on her, and when I asked, she just said it was from a client... It turned out all the little details I had deliberately ignored were proof of her betrayal. Sitting in the driver's seat, my hands trembling, I opened the dashcam. The moment the screen lit up, Fiona Scott's voice came through first, playful in a way I hadn't heard in a long time: "Don't make a fuss. Wait until we get downstairs to my place. It wouldn't be good if Mark sees this." Then a young man's voice followed, tinged with awkward laughter: "What's there to be afraid of? Mr. Shaw is so busy, he doesn't have time to deal with this." In the frame, Fiona Scott tilted her head, strands of hair falling onto the man's shoulder. She reached out to push against his chest, yet the corners of her mouth curled into a smile—the tenderness in her eyes was something I had never witnessed before. The next moment, the man turned his face and kissed her lips. The man's profile was unfamiliar, the youthfulness in his brow and eyes—the kind Fiona often called "full of energy." She always complained that I was too dull, too lacking in romance. I stared at the screen, my fingers unconsciously gripping the steering wheel, knuckles tapping against the plastic frame with a heavy, hollow sound. The car stalled, and I sat in the courtyard for half an hour until a light flickered on upstairs in the villa. A warm yellow glow filtered through the curtains, casting a blurred silhouette. Fiona Scott pushed the door open, wearing off-white loungewear, her damp hair resting on her shoulders, a faint flush still lingering on her face from her recent bath. She walked over to the car and tapped the window. "Why aren't you coming inside? What are you doing sitting in the car?" I rolled down the window. She reached in, trying to undo my tie; her fingertips just brushed the knot before I pulled away. I was afraid to touch her hand, afraid I wouldn't be able to hold back my questions, and even more afraid to hear her half-hearted explanations. I picked up the pair of underwear from the passenger seat and threw it onto the grass in front of her. The blades of grass trembled twice from the impact; the underwear lay on the dew-soaked grass, stark and glaring. "Explain." My voice was raw, as if squeezed from my throat, every word carrying the taste of rust. I fixed my gaze on her eyes, desperate for a reasonable explanation, even if it was a lie. Fiona Scott glanced down; the smile slowly faded from her face, but her eyes remained completely calm, without a hint of panic. She crouched down, wrapped the piece of cloth in tissues, and tossed it into the nearby trash can, moving as calmly as if she were picking up a fallen leaf. "Someone must have picked it up," she stood straight and brushed the dust off her hands. "Maybe the cleaning crew left it in the car by accident yesterday." "I've already watched the dashcam footage." I cut her off, my voice betraying a faint tremor. I still wanted to see a flicker of guilt in her eyes, even if it was just an act. Fiona fell silent for a few seconds, then turned and walked toward the villa. When she reached the door, she stopped, turned her back to me, and said, "Mark, some things don't need to be completely exposed." Her voice was light as a whisper, like the autumn night wind brushing past my ear, leaving nothing but a chill behind. I stood frozen, watching her figure vanish beyond the door. The moment the villa door shut, the illusion of happiness built over ten years of marriage shattered completely, and the faint warmth left in my heart turned ice cold. The wind in the courtyard grew colder, cutting across my face like a knife slicing through skin.