After Divorce, I Rose to Director

In the fifth year of marrying Frank Collins, the air at home was as cold as if it had frozen solid. Even the sunlight drifting in from outside carried an unyielding chill; it fell on the floor but could not warm it for a moment. My name is Whitney Lynn. Five years ago, I married Frank Collins with a heart full of joy, believing we would walk hand in hand through all the years to come. But now, the warmth we once shared has long since worn away, leaving only silence and suspicion hanging heavily in the air. Frank's returns home grew later and later. Before, his clothes carried only a faint smell of smoke; now, they often bore a strange perfume—sickeningly sweet and sharp enough to sting my nostrils. That night, he came in pushing the door just before eleven. He didn't even look up when changing his shoes, his tone dismissive, as if dealing with an unimportant client: "I was busy with a project at the company today and forgot to message you." My gaze fell on the cuff of his suit; a long strand of hair with a chestnut sheen was tangled in the buttonhole. That wasn't my hair texture—mine was jet black and had never grown so long. "Were you busy with my sister, Mindy Lynn?" I tried to keep my voice calm. Frank Collins paused while tying his shoelaces, then tugged at his tie to avoid my gaze: "Yes, she's the project leader now; a lot depends on her taking charge." Mindy Lynn is my half-sister on my father's side; after my mother passed away and my father remarried, she became a part of this family. Three months ago, she was suddenly appointed deputy general manager at Frank Collins's logistics company, despite having no experience in the logistics industry, yet she was immediately installed in a high-ranking position. From that day onward, my marriage with Frank Collins was like a balloon with a small puncture—gradually deflating, bit by bit.