Oliver stood in front of the tiny, run-down house, his legs barely holding him up. His shirt was soaked with sweat, his hands covered in dirt, and his face etched with exhaustion.
The day had been brutal, just like every other day. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a full night's sleep, let alone a moment of peace.
He had three jobs just to keep a roof over their heads and food on the table. By day, he delivered packages on a rusty bike that was falling apart.
In the evenings, he was a waiter, running around a noisy diner while dodging insults from impatient customers. And late at night, he scrubbed office floors as a janitor until his back screamed for mercy.
On weekends, he worked construction, hauling bricks and mixing cement under the scorching sun. No matter how much he worked, it was never enough.
At home, things were worse. His wife, Samantha, never let him forget that.
"You're pathetic," she'd say, arms crossed, glaring at him like he was dirt on her shoes. "You can't even make enough to take care of me properly. What kind of man are you?"
Her words stung, but Oliver would bite his tongue, swallowing his pride. Every time she called him "broke" or "a loser," he'd apologize, hoping to calm her anger. He'd beg her to be patient, to see how hard he was trying.
But Samantha didn't care. She rolled her eyes, insulted him some more, and made it clear she was embarrassed to even call him her husband.
Still, Oliver stayed. He worked harder, stretched himself thinner, and made excuses for her cruelty. He told himself it was love, but deep down, he was starting to wonder how long he could keep going like this.
Samantha was drop-dead gorgeous—skin smooth like silk, long flowing hair, and a body that could stop traffic. But behind all that beauty? A woman who made Oliver's life a living hell.
Her family was filthy rich, and they never let Oliver forget it. From the moment they got married, they looked down on him, laughing at his struggles and calling him "the broke husband." Samantha? She didn't defend him—not once.
Instead, she made sure their voices echoed in his ears every single day.
"You're such a disappointment," she'd say, flipping her hair and looking at him like he was dirt. "If you can't take care of me properly, why did I even marry you?"
Oliver worked nonstop trying to prove he could take care of her, trying to shut her family up. He was doing everything:
Working late shifts at a diner, washing dishes till his hands were raw.
Driving cabs all night just to scrape together extra cash.
Running deliveries in the blistering sun, barely able to catch his breath.
Meanwhile, Samantha wasn't lifting a finger. She spent her own money on clothes, makeup, and shoes—designer heels that cost more than Oliver's entire paycheck. She'd walk around in her fancy dresses, showing off to her friends, while he was out sweating his life away trying to keep the lights on.
When things got tough, like when the rent was late or the power went out, Samantha didn't offer to help. Oh no. Instead, she made him feel even worse.
"This is embarrassing," she'd hiss, arms crossed. "I deserve better than this."
The nagging was constant. She'd roll her eyes if he came home with the wrong groceries or yell at him for not making enough money. She called him lazy, useless, and poor—every insult she could throw, she did.
But Oliver didn't give up. He kept pushing himself harder, thinking, Maybe if I work more, if I make enough, she'll stop complaining. She'll finally be happy.
Two years ago, Oliver met Samantha in the most unexpected way. He was rushing to deliver some packages on foot when he accidentally bumped into her outside a fancy boutique.
She was beautiful—like, jaw-droppingly beautiful. Her long, shiny hair, her perfect makeup, and the way she carried herself made her look like she walked straight out of a magazine.
"Hey, watch it!" she said, but not in a mean way. More like she was surprised.
Oliver, with his arms full of boxes, froze like a deer in headlights. "I'm so sorry! Are you okay?"
She gave him a once-over, probably taking in his sweaty face and cheap work uniform, but then she smiled. And wow, that smile. It hit him like a ton of bricks.
"It's fine," she said, brushing invisible dust off her designer dress. "You should be more careful, though."
From that moment, she was stuck in his head. A few days later, they ran into each other again—this time at a small coffee shop.
She was sitting with her friends, laughing and flipping her hair, and Oliver, awkward as ever, decided to shoot his shot. He walked over, nervous but determined, and said something cheesy like, "Fancy meeting you here."
Somehow, she found it charming. They talked, exchanged numbers, and things just took off from there. Samantha was from a wealthy family, and Oliver? Well, he wasn't.
But she made him feel like that didn't matter. She told him he was sweet, hardworking, and different from all the guys she knew.
A year later, they got married in a small ceremony. Her family didn't seem thrilled—barely showed up, really—but Oliver didn't care. He loved her, and he thought she loved him too.
Now, two years later, it was Samantha's birthday, and Oliver was over the moon with excitement. He had worked extra hours all week, juggling his three jobs—dishwashing, delivery runs, and janitorial work—just to afford her gifts.
When he got to their apartment, he was carrying two things. A small cake with "Happy Birthday, Samantha" written in pink icing and a little blue box containing a delicate silver bracelet. It wasn't fancy or expensive, but it had taken every penny he could spare.
Climbing the stairs, Oliver couldn't stop smiling. He muttered to himself, practicing what he'd say. "Happy birthday, babe. I know it's not much, but it's from the heart. You're my world."
The thought of seeing her smile kept him going. Sure, she always nagged about money and called him "broke," but tonight, he hoped, would be different. He couldn't wait to see her happy, to remind her how much he loved her.
As Oliver walked up to the house, his heart pounded with excitement, but his eyes couldn't help but linger on the shiny, exotic car parked in the driveway. It wasn't the kind of car that belonged in this neighborhood—not by a long shot.
"Huh, maybe a guest? Someone here to surprise Samantha?" he muttered to himself. Shaking his head, he refocused on the cake and the small blue gift box he had been clutching tightly all the way home.
"Samantha, baby!" he called out happily as he pushed the front door open. Strangely, the door wasn't locked. He paused for a second but quickly brushed off any doubt. Maybe she had just stepped out and left it open.
The house was quiet, and the faint smell of Samantha's expensive perfume lingered in the air. He grinned to himself as he walked through the living room. "She's going to love this," he muttered, glancing at the box in his hand.
Oliver opened the bedroom door, eager to surprise Samantha, but the moment he stepped inside, it felt like the air had been sucked out of the room. His eyes widened as they locked on the sight before him—his wife, his Samantha, tangled up with a man on their bed.
For a moment, his brain refused to process it. The man, plump and smug-looking, was pressing himself against her, both of them oblivious to Oliver standing there.
It felt like time froze, but his chest burned, and his legs refused to move. He stared, his hands trembling as the cake and gift box he was holding slipped from his grasp, landing on the floor with a dull thud.
The sound broke the trance. Oliver's shout erupted before he even realized it, raw and thunderous, filled with betrayal and pain.
"WHAT IS THIS?!" he bellowed, his voice shaking the walls.