To buy my husband a decent birthday gift, I took a secret job as a delivery driver. One day, when I handed over a brown paper bag containing ultra-thin condoms to a female customer, she unexpectedly asked if I could give her a massage.  Her reason? Her boyfriend had been so rough in bed that her entire body was sore and barely holding together. My immediate instinct was to turn her down. Today was the day I finally regained my hearing. I was filled with excitement, desperate to rush home and share this miracle with my husband. Then she made an offer I couldn't ignore: one thousand dollars for a single session. That was half my monthly paycheck. With that kind of cash, I could afford a much better birthday gift for my husband. Thinking of my husband, who was still working late, I followed her into the room. The lavish presidential suite was littered with discarded clothes, the air thick with the scent of lingering passion—a silent testament to just how intense their night had been. "Oh, you know what men are like," the woman sighed. "He's just obsessed with thrills and intensity. Good thing he bought me an entire collection of designer silk sleepwear, or I never would've been able to keep up with him." I glanced down at the torn silk nightgown strewn across the floor, then quietly hid my worn-out cuffs behind my back. I had seen that brand at the luxury mall before. Even the cheapest piece in their line cost at least three thousand dollars. "Mandy, did you get it?" A voice came from the bathroom, one I recognized immediately. My breath hitched.  My head snapped around by instinct. When I saw him, I froze, the blood draining from my face. Standing there barely dressed was Vincent, the very man who had been my husband for five years, the man who shared a cramped, rundown apartment with me: my husband, Vincent Harrison.