On my wedding night, I lay awake, staring up at the stark white ceiling, unable to find sleep.

Sarah and I had known each other since our college years. Back then, we were just two friends in the same study group, often staying late at the library, sharing cheap sandwiches and dreaming of a comfortable future. Friendship blossomed into love before we even realized it. After graduation, we married and moved into a tiny studio apartment, starting our life together with nothing but our bare hands and entry-level salaries that barely covered the bills.

In the beginning, though we were broke, we were happy. However, the longer I lived in that struggle, the more restless I became. I watched my friends buy houses in the suburbs and upgrade their cars one by one, while I was still fumbling with rent and student loans. My mind became consumed by a single thought: I had to get rich, as fast as possible.

Following a friend’s tip, I secretly delved into day trading, hiding it from Sarah for fear she would worry. The result was a total loss. The day I brought home my first massive debt, I braced myself for a heated argument, but she just sat there in silence, tears streaming down her face.

“It’s okay,” she said. “As long as we have each other, we’ll be fine. We’ll work through this and pay it back. Consider the lost money an expensive lesson.”

Those words made me feel both grateful and utterly powerless. Yet, it was that very forgiveness that fueled my resentment. I wanted to win it back, to prove I wasn’t a failure. I secretly took out high-interest personal loans and dived back into the market. This time, I made a profit. Greed took over; I invested more… and lost everything again. After several such cycles, my debts piled up to hundreds of thousands of dollars.

Only when Sarah threatened divorce did I finally stop. I worked my 9-to-5 job by day, drove for Uber by night, and returned home exhausted in the early hours. Sarah also pinched every penny, scraping together what she could to help me stay afloat. Three years passed like an inescapable treadmill. We were depleted, both physically and mentally.

Her frame grew thin, and she looked exhausted from lack of sleep. I grew despondent, feeling like life was nothing but a cycle of debt. Intimacy faded, and our conversations revolved only around bills and the kids. The distance between us grew daily, and neither of us had the strength to bridge it.

Every day, I heard her snapping at the kids and complaining about the cost of living. Our meals were cheap and monotonous. Her voice grew harsh from chronic fatigue. I began to get irritable, nitpicking her smallest flaws, forgetting that I was the one who had pushed our family to this brink. Looking at our cramped, cluttered apartment, I only wished I could run away.

Then, at a housewarming party for my CEO, I met Chloe, his daughter. I had no intentions, but she took the initiative to get to know me, pursuing me relentlessly. From the moment the boss’s daughter took an interest in me, my career flourished. I was transferred to a more relaxed department with a better future and gained many influential connections.

With money in my pocket, I became even colder toward Sarah. When the affair was discovered, she didn’t make a scene. She simply said quietly:

“I’m tired. Let’s stop.”

I didn’t try to hold her back. We divorced; I left the children in her care. A month later, I remarried Chloe. My new father-in-law helped us buy a luxury home. I was overjoyed to finally have the life I had dreamed of for years.

But on the wedding night, I was struck dumb.

Since Chloe and I had kept our affair “proper,” we had never been intimate. In other words, our wedding night was supposed to be our first time together, and I had been looking forward to it.

When Chloe stepped out of the bathroom and lifted her silk gown, I froze. On her thigh was a large, puckered scar. I couldn’t utter a word. Chloe looked at me, her voice trembling:

“Don’t you remember me?”

Then Chloe confessed: she was the girl from the online forum I had “dated” back in college. Back then, after months of messaging, she had driven across the state to meet me. I had been shocked because her appearance was so different from her photos, and I rejected her cruelly, saying things that deeply wounded her. In despair, she had run out into the street without looking and was hit by a car. Her femur was shattered, requiring surgery that left those permanent scars.

Chloe went on to say she had undergone extensive plastic surgery to change her look, but all those years, she had carried my image in her heart. Reencountering me at the party felt like destiny to her, and she wanted to have me at any cost.

Hearing this, I was paralyzed. Fragments of old memories rushed back, especially the face of the girl I had humiliated years ago. Although she was different now—glamorous and confident—that old image haunted my mind, impossible to shake.

That night, I lay tossing and turning, staring at the white ceiling. I didn’t dare turn toward her. A terrifying question echoed in my head: If we have children later, what if they look like her original face? At that thought, my heart tightened with a mixture of fear and guilt. I don’t know if I can stay in this marriage.