The Passport That Sent My CEO to Prison

The night before last, Ethan Lawson came back from a business trip so exhausted that he fell asleep the moment his head hit the pillow.

I was tidying up his walk-in closet when his coat slipped to the floor.

A well-worn black passport holder slid out of the inside pocket.

Ethan had warned me that this was a core business secret and that I must never touch it.

I originally intended to just shove it back in.

But the edge of the holder accidentally split open, scattering a thick stack of international boarding passes.

And a stack of photos.

The photos were of him kissing and embracing another woman, with various famous North American landmarks in the background.

On the back of each photo was written—"Year eight, my love for you hasn't changed."

I opened the inner compartment.

Inside were remittance receipts for overseas accounts, with the total amount reaching as high as thirty million.

This money was exactly the bridge-loan reserve the company was preparing to use for its IPO next week.

The sound of running water in the bathroom stopped.

I heard the slap of his slippers approaching the bedroom.

I put everything back into the coat pocket exactly as it had been, my palms slick with cold sweat.

Ethan walked out and casually picked up the hairdryer.

He helped me blow-dry my hair, setting it to the constant-temperature mode I always use.

"Honey, you've worked hard. Once the promotion banquet is over, I'll take you on a vacation."

He skillfully switched it to the constant-temperature setting I liked best, the warm breeze brushing through my hair.

His movements were gentle, his gaze focused, as if I were the person he cherished most in this life.

Yet scenes flashed uncontrollably through my mind.

Back when we were starting our business and things were at their toughest, my stomach condition flared up.

To scrape together one hundred dollars for my stomach medicine, he hid it from me and went to work at a construction site, hauling bricks non-stop for two days straight.

When he came back, he was holding a hard, stale bun. He broke off half and forced it into my hand, drinking only some hot water himself.

Then there was that stormy night when I had a high fever that wouldn't go down.

Without a second word, he carried me on his back, trudging through ankle-deep floodwater for three kilometers, stumbling all the way until he got me to the hospital.

At that time, he lay beside my hospital bed, his eyes red from exhaustion, and made a vow.

"In this life, I, Ethan Lawson, will never betray you."

Now, the whirring of the hairdryer swelled endlessly in my ears, drilling straight into my skull.

I looked at his affectionate profile in the mirror, and my stomach churned violently.

So all that deep affection was nothing but a carefully woven fig leaf he had crafted over eight years.

"Ethan, next month's wedding and your promotion party both need to start being prepared."

I forced myself to squeeze out a natural smile in the mirror.

He turned off the hairdryer, gently embraced me from behind, and rested his chin on top of my head.

"Honey, I'm sorry. After the promotion party, I might need to go to North America to explore the market, probably for a month or two."

There was a hint of apology and fatigue in his voice.

North America.

The place where he and that woman were always checking in and posting photos.

My heart suddenly clenched, and even my breathing turned tight.

"Okay. Then take care of yourself."

I got up to pour myself a glass of water, my mind in a daze.

My fingers spasmed, and the glass in my hand slipped straight down.

"Crash!"

The cup shattered at my feet, and a sharp shard of glass sliced my calf.

"Are you alright?"

Ethan Lawson rushed over immediately, his face filled with undisguised panic.

Without even looking at himself, he picked up the glass shards from the floor with his bare hands, muttering under his breath,

"Don't move, don't move. I'll handle this."

A sharp piece of glass cut his index finger, and bright red beads of blood instantly welled up.

But he seemed to feel no pain, only nervously checking my wound.

"It's okay, the wound isn't deep."

He brought over the first-aid kit, skillfully took out an alcohol swab, and carefully cleaned the small wound on my calf.

He remembered that I was allergic to regular iodine and would break out in red rashes.

So the first-aid kit was always stocked with the most expensive imported "painless" antiseptic solution.

Every single move was meticulous and thorough.

If he didn't love me, how could he remember even these minor quirks of mine so precisely?

My heart began to waver, even giving rise to a sliver of ridiculous hope.

Perhaps it was all a misunderstanding?

Right after we graduated from college, we were crammed into a basement without windows.

Once, a huge rat scurried out from under the bed, and I was so scared I burst into tears.

He stayed up all night, standing guard in front of my bed with a wooden stick, watching over me without blinking.

Back then, his eyes held only me, pure, without a single impurity.

He said that even glancing at another girl felt like a crime against me.

"What are you thinking about, spacing out like that?"

Ethan Lawson finished putting the band-aid on me and looked up at me tenderly.

I shook my head, looking at the wound on his finger that was still oozing blood.

The last spark of hope in my heart was completely extinguished by the cold wind of reality.

For someone who could be so ruthless to himself, putting on a show of deep affection was nothing at all.

What hurts the most is not cruelty.

It's more than that—it's a kind of hypocrisy that seeps into the bones, down to the tiniest detail.