Coffee and the Rooftop

Just because I spilled coffee on the handbag of the “mistress,” the man I had shared my bed with for five years heartlessly locked me out on the rooftop.

I used to think marrying a wealthy, successful man was the greatest blessing of my life. But in the end, my marriage turned out to be nothing more than a cold contract, where emotions were buried beneath lavish parties and indifferent glances.

My husband—Minh Hoang—was the CEO of a major corporation. Handsome, talented, always surrounded by women who admired him. I had grown used to it, even used to the shadow of the young woman who was always by his side—his so-called “special assistant” named Vy.

That day, at a company party, I accidentally spilled a cup of coffee on Vy’s designer handbag. She screamed in outrage, glaring at me as if I were a saboteur. But what hurt me most was Hoang’s reaction.

He snapped coldly:
— Do you know how much that bag costs? Did you do it on purpose?

I froze in disbelief. It was clearly an accident, yet in his eyes, I was the guilty one. Before I could even explain, he dragged me out of the banquet hall and up to the rooftop.

“Stand there and think about what you’ve done. Don’t come down until you realize your mistake.” His voice was like ice.

The metal door slammed shut with a click. I was locked out, shivering under the howling winter wind.

I stood there stunned—humiliated and angry. Because of the mistress’s handbag, my husband was willing to lock me up like a prisoner? Wrapping my arms around myself, I tried to endure it. But as night fell, fever struck me. My body burned, my head spun.

By midnight, I was trembling violently, my temperature soaring to 41°C. Every step felt like walking on fire, my vision blurring. I pounded on the door, screaming for help, but no one heard me.

In my delirium, memories came rushing back: the early days of our marriage when Hoang once held my hand and swore never to let me cry. Yet now, for another woman, he abandoned me like nothing.

When I opened my eyes again, I was in the hospital. My mother-in-law sat beside me, face full of worry. Hoang was there too, but he wouldn’t meet my gaze.

My mother-in-law’s voice was stern:
— You call yourself a husband? Your wife nearly died from a fever and you didn’t care? Where is your conscience?

Hoang stayed silent. I gave a bitter smile, my voice hoarse:
— If it weren’t for the security guard checking the rooftop, I wouldn’t be alive to sit here now.

Silence filled the room. I turned away, unable to look at him.

In the days that followed, I kept my distance. Hoang tried to explain, saying he had only acted out of anger, that he had no relationship with Vy beyond work. But my trust was already gone.

The final blow came when I saw Vy at our house, bringing porridge and supplements for him. Standing at the door, she spoke softly:
— You’ve been working so hard. Please take care of yourself.

Watching that scene, my heart shattered. I packed my bags and made my decision.

— You love your “special assistant” and her handbag more than your own wife’s life. So keep her. — I said, then took my child and left that cold mansion.

Three months later, I found a new job and lived with my child in a small but warm apartment. I rediscovered simple joys—cooking dinner for my child, reading books at night—without having to fear my husband’s cold eyes.

One afternoon, Hoang showed up. He looked thinner, dark circles under his eyes. Kneeling before me, his voice choked:
— I was wrong. Only after losing you did I realize what I gave up. Vy has already quit, but that doesn’t matter anymore. Please… give me another chance.

I looked at him, torn between pain and calm. The memory of that freezing rooftop, of the 41-degree fever, came flooding back. I pressed my lips together:
— Hoang, love isn’t something you can lock away and then open at your convenience. You didn’t just lock me on that rooftop—you locked my heart inside your coldness. And now, it’s dead.

Without another word, I took my child’s hand and walked away, leaving Hoang crumbling in the empty corridor.

That marriage ended—bitter, but also liberating. I finally understood: sometimes, a spilled cup of coffee is just the final drop, exposing a truth that had rotted long ago.