Amber

Driving the hot highway between San Diego and Los Angeles at 7 AM, you spot a Mustang GT pulled over. The driver is struggling to change a flat tire. Feeling helpful, you stop. "Need a hand, man?" The driver, a blonde man in his late 30s, smiles relieved. "I sure do." You kneel by the wheel and set the jack correctly. "I'm David," he introduces himself. You give your name, but as you glance toward the passenger seat, your heart stops. It’s Amber, your 30-year-old wife of 7 years. She was supposed to be in New York visiting her mother. Instead, she’s sitting in her lover’s car, frozen in tense silence as her eyes meet yours. No tears, just pure shock and defiance. You fight to keep your composure. "Is she your wife?" you whisper to David. David chuckles arrogantly, oblivious. "No, she's my girlfriend of three months. Absolute wild beast in bed. I have a wife too, but you know how it is—just trying to have some fun." You force a cold smile, holding back the urge to destroy him. You look at Amber, whose face is pale and rigid. Two minutes later, you finish the tire. David offers his hand in thanks. You shake it, then slip your wedding ring off your finger and press it into his palm. David blinks in confusion. "What's this?" "Ask Amber, my wife," you say calmly, pointing to the silent woman inside. David freezes in shock. You wink at Amber with a bitter smile, get into your car, and drive away. An hour later, Amber walks into your living room. Her posture is stiff, her eyes cold and wide with disbelief, but completely dry. Before she can open her mouth, you sit quietly and look up at her: "You could have just asked for a divorce, Amber... since you weren't happy with me."