Part 3The Cheater's Burn: Frugal Husband, Toxic Mistress

After wrapping up my handovers at the office, I pulled up an address on my phone and drove to a local custom novelty and prank shop.

I took out the unopened box of the exact same Japanese condoms I had purchased earlier and slid it across the counter.

I asked the clerk to carefully tamper with them—infusing every single wrapper with pure, ultra-concentrated capsaicin oil, the hottest chili extract known to man.

The clerk looked at me like I was insane and offered a nervous warning: "Ma'am, if someone actually uses this, it’s going to cause agonizing chemical burns. It could be medically dangerous."

I smiled calmly. "Don't worry about it."

It wasn't like I was the one who was going to use it.

When I returned home, I picked up the iPad lying on the living room sofa.

Our family shared this tablet. I used it to stream dramas, my daughter used it to watch cartoons, and Logan used it to play mobile games.

If there was any corner of Logan’s social life that I had been blind to over the years, it had to be buried in his gaming apps.

The second I launched the game he always played, a direct message icon flashed on the screen.

The handle was *SnowyWife*: "Babe, we're finally going on our trip the day after tomorrow! Don't forget to pack the supplies~ Hehehe, I already boarded Mimi at the vet clinic near your neighborhood. Don't worry, I'm going to make sure you have the time of your life this time."

A wave of sheer revulsion washed over me, but I forced my fingers to keep scrolling up.

The chat history dated all the way back to three years ago, when I was only a few months pregnant with our daughter. That was when they had added each other.

At first, it was just harmless roleplay—setting matching profile pictures and getting "married" inside the game.

Then, my thumb froze at the date of my daughter’s birth.

That day, I had suffered through a grueling, agonizing labor with severe complications, fighting for my life in the delivery room.

Meanwhile, Logan had been typing away in the game chat:

"Sigh... My wife is in labor right now and the stress is killing me. I really wish I could see you, Snow."

She had replied within seconds:

"Where are you, big guy? Why don't we exchange numbers? Let's drop our locations. If you're close by, I wouldn't mind keeping you company."

Back then, Logan had still pretended to have a conscience:

"I can't. The doctor said her delivery is high-risk, I have to stay here."

Noble words. Yet barely three hours later, Logan messaged her again, claiming he was "too anxious and needed a real voice to calm him down," before eagerly handing over his private contact info.

From there, the conversations moved off the app.

Staring at the phone number displayed on the screen, I immediately set up a burner social media account.

I picked a generic, thirst-trap photo of a faceless, muscular guy as the profile picture.

Friend request note: *Snow, it's me.*

She accepted almost instantly and sent back a single question mark: *?*

I didn't reply right away. Instead, I clicked directly into her Instagram profile.

Scroll after scroll, the truth laid itself bare.

Every Valentine’s Day, there were screenshots of sweet Venmo transfers from Logan.

And right around Valentine's Day, while I was handed a cheap cooking pot, she had posted a photo of the exact luxury body wash gift set I had begged for at the mall.

Her caption read:

*Hubby says the finest things should only be given to the women who deserve them. Some people just aren't worthy of luxury.*