Betrayal in the Rain

The bedroom door was slightly ajar, a warm, golden light spilling through the gap.

Lyra was speaking in a hushed voice.

Forrest let out a short laugh, his deep voice as familiar as ever.

My hand was still on the suitcase handle. Two steps forward, and I could push the door open. But I did not.

The display cabinet in the living room took up an entire wall, filled with 58 ceramic cups.

They were like 58 silent mouths, all clamoring to tell me just how busy Forrest had been over the past two months.

The whole thing felt absurd.

Before I left, I was still upset about our argument. Forrest had resented me for bringing trouble into our home, and I had thought he was cruel and heartless.

Then he started buying a cup from the pottery shop every day. I assumed he was trying to apologize in his own clumsy way.

It turned out that the apology was a lie. The affair was real.

A muffled groan came from the bedroom.

I let go of the suitcase handle and walked out the front door.

Once downstairs, I got into my car.

The lights were on in my apartment on the sixteenth floor. I had lived there for seven years.

When we bought the place, Forrest had just taken over the company, and it was in serious financial trouble. He had spent two whole weeks sleeping at the office. I mortgaged the storefront my parents had left me and stood by him through the worst of it.

The day we got the keys to our new home, he carried me to the window.

"From now on, this is our home. No one else gets in, and no one can tear us apart."

Now Lyra had done more than enter our home. Her fingerprint had even been registered in the smart lock.

An hour later, Forrest video-called me.

I answered, keeping the street behind me obscured by the darkness.

He was still wearing the pajamas I had given him last year. Two buttons at the collar were undone, and his hair was damp.

"Honey, when are you coming home? I went to the pottery shop again today to support her business. I'm exhausted."

He turned the camera toward the display cabinet. "Number 58. I picked all of them in colors you like. You should be happy now, right?"

Watching him put on his act, I felt the knot in my chest slowly begin to loosen. "Thanks for going to all that trouble."

He hesitated. "Are you still mad at me?"

"No."

"Then come home soon. I miss you." He said it softly, with a hint of hurt in his voice.

In the past, whenever he looked at me like that, I would always be the first to give in. But this time, I noticed a scratch on the side of his neck.

I ended the call and booked a room at a nearby hotel.

I stayed up all night, exporting records from our joint account, the company's transactions, and our smart lock's access logs, one by one.

It turned out Lyra's fingerprint had been registered on the third day after I left the country, and Forrest had been the one to authorize it.

…

Early the next morning, I dragged my suitcase home.

Forrest pulled me into a tight hug. "Why didn't you tell me you were coming back?"

His arms tightened around me, and I caught his familiar scent. My eyes stung.

Seven years of muscle memory still tugged at me, even when my self-respect told me not to respond. Some part of me still wanted to hug him back.

I let my arms fall to my sides. I did not hug him back.

The door lock chimed. Fingerprint recognized. The door opened from the outside, and Lyra stood there holding a clay pot.

When she saw me, the pot in her hand trembled slightly.

She held a ceramic cup in her other hand.

The fifty-ninth.