The Debt of Affair
Frankie is a retired soldier, always carrying that tough, military edge.
Every day when he goes out, whether to the company or to the market, he unfailingly wears his camouflage uniform.
In his words, these clothes feel comfortable, and they always remind him that he used to be a soldier.
Whenever a popular young actor shows up on TV, he sneers and mutters, "No backbone, just painting on makeup."
I'd long gotten used to his look; sometimes I even found his bluntness kind of endearing.
That weekend, both of us were off, and Frankie Carr said he wanted to go out for a meal to change up our diet.
I was pretty happy, thinking I finally wouldn't have to cook and could just relax.
Who would've thought that picking a place to eat would become such a huge headache.
We first went to a well-reviewed private kitchen, but the moment we stepped inside, Frankie Carr's brows knitted together.
The waiter handed him the menu, and after flipping through just a few pages, he slammed it down on the table, sounding annoyed: "These dishes are way too fancy."
"There's so little food—it's gone in one bite. How's that enough for a man?"
I quickly tried to convince him, "They specialize in delicate dishes, and they taste great. Let's give it a try, okay?"
He shook his head and walked out without looking back. "No way. It's not worth it, not satisfying to eat."
I had no choice but to follow him out.
Then, we went to a chain restaurant.
As soon as we sat down, Frankie Carr glanced around and started complaining again: "This place is way too noisy. You have to shout just to be heard, and you can't even enjoy your meal."
I felt a bit helpless: "So what kind of place are you looking for?"
He rubbed his chin, thought for a moment, and said, "We need somewhere down-to-earth, with big portions and strong flavors."
We wandered the streets for nearly an hour, our legs almost aching, until finally, Frankie's eyes lit up and he pointed ahead: "This is the one!"
I looked up at the shop sign that read "Mars BBQ." The place wasn't very big, but it looked lively.
As I stepped inside, the aroma of grilled meat hit me, and Frankie Carr finally broke into a satisfied smile.
We found a spot and sat down. When the waiter came over to take our order, Frankie expertly ordered grilled kidneys, lamb skewers, and beef tendons, making sure to ask for extra spice.
While waiting for the food, Frankie started chatting with the owner, asking if he had ever served in the military.
The owner smiled and shook his head: "No, I haven't. I just like the old soldier theme—it feels meaningful, so I decided to open this place."
The moment he heard that, Frankie Carr's smile vanished instantly, and his brow furrowed once again.
He started looking around, complaining that "this table isn't clean," then saying "the smoke from this grill is too strong; it's choking me."
Watching his sudden change in mood, I felt a little uneasy inside.
Then he began recalling his days in the military unit, saying that back then, when they grilled meat together with comrades, that was true fun — big chunks of meat, and it was such a satisfying feast.
He babbled on and on, completely unaware of the growing sourness on my face.
I couldn't help but interrupt him: "Enough with the past. Can't we just eat in peace now?"
Frankie Carr paused, shot me a displeased look, and said, "What's wrong with me talking? The days in the military unit were unforgettable—you wouldn't understand anyway."
Feeling even more uncomfortable, I didn't argue. I just silently picked up my chopsticks and started eating the kebabs.
Halfway through the meal, Frankie Carr went to the restroom, leaving his mobile phone on the table.
I wasn't paying attention at first, but then the mobile phone screen suddenly lit up, and a message preview popped up.
I glanced over unintentionally and saw a soft, cute cat emoji following the message—big round eyes and rosy cheeks, looking especially adorable.
I was stunned. Frankie Carr usually hated this kind of cute stuff the most. Who would be sending him the emoji?
And besides me, none of his contacts seemed like the kind to send the emoji.
My heart was filled with doubts, but before I could think any further, Frankie came back from the bathroom.
I quickly shifted my gaze away, pretending to focus on eating the kebabs, but my mind kept drifting back to that cat emoji—I had this nagging feeling that something wasn't right.
On the way home after dinner, I tried several times to ask Frankie Carr about that emoji, but when the words reached my lips, I swallowed them back.
Maybe I was overthinking it. Maybe it was just something a friend had casually sent?
I tried to reassure myself like that, but the uneasy feeling just wouldn't go away.
Days passed by one after another, and before long, it was our wedding anniversary—mine and Frankie Carr's.
I had been looking forward to it for a long time, thinking that even if Frankie Carr wasn't romantic, he'd at least have a decent gift prepared.
After all, this was our third wedding anniversary—something special, something different.
That night, I specially cooked a table full of Frankie Carr's favorite dishes and bought a bottle of red wine.
When Frankie Carr came home from work, sure enough, he was holding a small box. I felt a secret joy welling up inside and quickly went to meet him.
"Happy anniversary!" I said with a smile.
Frankie Carr nodded and handed me the box: "Here, it's for you. See if you like it."
I couldn't wait to open the box, but what I saw inside immediately stunned me.
Inside the box was a rose, but the color was a deadly Barbie pink, and it wasn't real—it was made of plastic, stiff to the touch.
Holding that plastic rose, my heart was tangled with mixed feelings; I didn't know what to say.
Frankie Carr saw my reaction and mistakenly thought I liked it. He proudly said, "So? Not a bad gift, huh?"
"This flower is plastic; it will never wilt – how practical! And such a bright color, it perfectly suits your vibe."
I forced back the disappointment in my heart and managed a weak smile. "It's... quite special, thank you."
He looked even more pleased when he heard me, picked up his chopsticks, and started eating without noticing the reluctance on my face.
That night, I barely slept at all; something just didn't feel right inside.
Frankie Carr used to be unromantic, sure, but he would never have given such a half-hearted gift.
This plastic rose in deadly Barbie pink looked like something bought casually from a street vendor.
In the days that followed, I noticed Frankie growing stranger and stranger.
He always had his mobile phone glued to his hand. Whether we were eating or watching TV, he kept sneaking glances at it, and he even made a point to avoid me.
Once, I tried to grab his phone to check something, and he reacted really strongly—quickly shoving it into his pocket and snapping at me, "What are you doing with my phone?"
"It's my phone, and I need to use it. If you want to use a phone, get your own."
His reaction caught me off guard. Before, his phone was never locked, and I even knew his password. So why was he suddenly so tense?
My suspicions only grew, and I started to suspect he was hiding something from me.
A few days later, while Frankie Carr was in the shower, I tried to unlock his mobile phone with his old password, but to my surprise, it said the password was incorrect.
He had actually changed his mobile phone password!
This realization hit me hard, making me even more certain that something was wrong.
I sat on the sofa, feeling a turmoil inside, not knowing what to do.
No, I had to find out exactly what was going on.
I began recalling Frankie Carr's recent unusual behavior and suddenly remembered he'd been hiding in the study at night, glued to his phone, and even closing the door.
So, while he wasn't paying attention, I secretly installed a small password-cracking app on his mobile phone.
The next day, after Frankie Carr had left, I opened his mobile phone.
As soon as I opened it, a flood of messages popped up, and among them was one contact saved as "Joyce," with an especially large number of messages.
My heart instantly raced, and trembling, I clicked open the chat history with "Joyce."
You don't realize something until you see it—you get a shock once you do.
In the chat, "Joyce" sent lots of cute emojis, exactly the same cat emoji I'd seen at the barbecue place last time.
And "Joyce" often praised Frankie Carr, saying he was "so amazing," "so manly," and "better than anyone else I know."
Frankie Carr's replies were equally ambiguous, saying things like "You really understand me," "It's so nice chatting with you," and "When I have time, I'll take you out for something delicious."
Looking at these chat histories, my hands trembled uncontrollably, and it felt like my heart was being cut with a knife.
So, it wasn't that he didn't understand romance—he just reserved his kind of romance for someone else.
I held the mobile phone, tears streaming down uncontrollably. Could three years of marriage really end like this?
The more I thought about it, the more wronged and angry I felt. I decided that when Frankie Carr came back, I had to get some clear answers.
When Frankie Carr came home, the moment he stepped inside, he saw me sitting on the sofa, my face dark and gloomy.
He paused for a moment, then asked suspiciously, "What's wrong? Who upset you?"
I didn't answer him. Instead, I threw the mobile phone in front of him and said coldly, "See for yourself. Who is this 'Joyce'?"
"What exactly is your relationship with her?"
Frankie picked up the phone, and after reading the chat history, his expression changed instantly.
At first, he looked nervous, then he forced a calm tone and said, "Oh, you mean her? She's a distant cousin of mine. She just graduated recently. We chat sometimes, and she asks about work stuff."
"A distant cousin?" I sneered, "Since when does a sister send her brother such flirty emojis and say those cheesy things? Do you think I'm stupid?"
"I've already told you she's my sister; why won't you believe me?" Frankie Carr raised his voice, his tone becoming impatient.
"She's young and immature; she doesn't know any better and speaks without thinking. Don't take her seriously."
"Immature?" I stood up, feeling upset. "She's immature—are you immature too?"
"Don't you know you have a wife? You talk to her about all sorts of nonsense—have you ever considered how I feel?"
"I'm just having normal brother-sister chats with her. Can you stop making a fuss?" Frankie Carr stood up too, facing off against me.
"I work so hard every day. What's wrong with chatting with her to relax a bit? Do you really have to make such a big deal out of this?"
"A big deal?" I was trembling with anger.
"You changed your mobile phone password, hide your phone from me, and say those ambiguous things to another woman—and you call this making a big deal out of nothing?"
"Frankie, be honest with yourself—do you think you've been fair to me? Fair to our three years of marriage?"
Frankie Carr was left speechless by my question, his eyes beginning to avoid mine, clearly feeling guilty.
He was silent for a moment, then his tone softened: "Alright, alright, I know I was wrong. I won't talk to her so much anymore, alright? Please don't be angry."
"Not talk so much anymore?" I looked at him, filled with disappointment. "Frankie, do you really think this is a problem you can fix by just saying 'not talk so much anymore'?"
"You've already betrayed our marriage. I can't trust you anymore."
Hearing the word "betrayal," Frankie Carr got worked up again: "I didn't betray you! She and I are like brother and sister! Stop throwing the word betrayal around all the time!"
"Then tell me, why have you never let me know when you're chatting with her?"
"Why did you change your mobile phone password?" I kept pressing, refusing to let him off the hook.
Frankie Carr was left speechless by my questioning and could only irritably scratch his head: "I have nothing to say to you!"
Looking at him like this, the last flicker of hope in my heart finally died.
I took a deep breath and said calmly, "Frankie, let's get a divorce."
Frankie Carr was stunned, staring at me in disbelief. "What did you say? Divorce? You want to divorce me over such a trivial matter?"
"This is not trivial," I said firmly. "You were the one who broke our marriage vows first. I can't keep living with someone I don't trust."
"I don't agree to a divorce!" Frankie Carr said loudly. "After all these years together, how can you just say 'divorce' and expect it to happen?"
"All these years together?" I gave a bitter laugh, "When you were being ambiguous with another woman, how come you never thought about our relationship? Saying this now is just too late."
After saying that, I turned and walked into the bedroom to start packing my bags.
Frankie Carr was in the living room, angry and anxious, repeatedly accusing me of being immature and making a big deal out of nothing.
But I've already made up my mind—no matter what he says, I'm getting a divorce.
After packing my bags, I carried my suitcase into the living room and said to Frankie Carr, "I'm going to the Civil Affairs Bureau tomorrow to file for divorce with you. Get your documents ready."
Frankie Carr looked at me, his eyes full of anger and resentment, but he didn't try to stop me.
I turned and walked out of the house. Although I was sad, more than anything, I felt relieved.
After leaving home, I checked into a hotel.
The next day, I went to the company, since Frankie and I had started a small business together, and I was responsible for the finances.
Sitting at my desk, I opened the company accounts, intending to sort out our recent financial situation.
But as I looked closer, I found a problem.
There were several large expenses in the accounts, totaling over a million, but the receipts were incomplete, and the purposes were vaguely described.
My heart sank, and I quickly double-checked the timing of these expenses.
It turned out the timing of these payments perfectly matched when Frankie Carr started chatting frequently with that "Joyce."
Could it be that all this money was given to that "Joyce"?
I didn't dare think about it any further—anger and anxiety welled up inside me.
No, I had to find out exactly where this money went; I couldn't just let Frankie Carr hand the company's money over to someone else without a clear explanation.
A few days after I moved out, I heard about Frankie Carr's situation from some former neighbors.
The neighbors said Frankie Carr went crazy at home, smashing everything into a mess—the sofa, the coffee table, and the TV didn't escape.
They also said he locked himself inside every day, neither going to work nor stepping outside. The house was strewn with trash and empty bottles, looking particularly disheveled.
After hearing this, I didn't feel an ounce of sympathy; instead, I thought he was only bringing this on himself.
If he hadn't betrayed our marriage or touched the company's money, none of this would have come to pass.
A few days later, my mobile phone started receiving text messages from Frankie Carr.
The first text came at one in the morning, the mobile phone vibrating on the hotel nightstand just as I was drifting off to sleep.
I picked up the phone and saw Frankie Carr's name flash on the screen, with the message: "Lydia, I was wrong, can you come back? The light at home is broken, and I don't know how to fix it."
I stared at that message for half a minute, my finger hovering over the screen, but in the end, I pressed delete.
Whenever something broke at home before, I was always the one calling someone to fix it. He used to think changing a lightbulb was too much trouble, and now suddenly he misses me.
But this "missing" came too late and was far too cheap.
Not even half an hour later, the second message came through, still from Frankie Carr: "I've deleted Joyce Xavier's contact info, really cut things off completely. Can you trust me once more?"
Joyce Xavier? So Joyce's real name was this.
I sneered coldly, opened the chat window, wanting to reply "No need," but then felt it was unnecessary, so I simply blacklisted his number.
I thought this would bring me peace, but Frankie Carr clung to it like it was his last lifeline, unwilling to let go.
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