Chapter 3

As the new women's line moved forward, Marc began working overtime even more frequently—sometimes not coming home until one or two in the morning.

He said he'd hit a bottleneck in the new collection's designs.

I told him not to overwork himself, but he only smiled and said he was fine.

Then another detail put me on alert.

After he came home, the scent of his body wash changed. We had always used cedarwood-scented products, yet for the past few days, he'd smelled like a sweet, cloying floral fragrance.

When I asked him about it, he brushed it off.

"The company bought new shower products for the break room. I shower there if I work late so I don't wake you."

The explanation was flawless, yet the unease inside me kept spreading like wildfire.

Another late night, he texted that he might have to stay up all night again and told me to sleep first.

I lay in bed, tossing and turning, and without thinking, opened the surveillance feed again.

The lights in his office were on, but his seat was empty.

Frowning, I slid the timeline back.

Just minutes earlier, a figure had flashed past the camera—quickly stepping into the blind spot of the interior office camera.

It was only a brief glimpse, but I was certain it wasn't Marc.

I shot upright, changed clothes in seconds, packed the chicken soup I'd been stewing into a thermos, and rushed out the door.

Fifteen minutes later, I was downstairs at his company building. Only his office on the entire floor was lit.

My heart hammered as I approached the door.

It wasn't locked. I pushed it open.

The room was empty.

How? I had clearly seen someone go inside!

I searched everywhere—the design department, the break room, the storage closet—every possible hiding place.

Nothing. No one.

Breathless, I returned to his office.

Then I heard the sound of fabric brushing, mixed with a man's muffled breathing. It sounded like it came from the corner of the room.

I stepped quietly toward the sound.

Up close, I noticed a narrow gap where a panel met the wall, faint light seeping through it.

My mind went blank. I grabbed the panel and yanked it open.

"Marc! What are you doing in here?!" I screamed.

Behind the panel was a small space—like a miniature dressing room.

And inside stood Marc, staring at me in shock, holding the arm of a mannequin. There wasn't another living soul in the room.

He stared at my furious expression, utterly baffled.

“Babe? What are you doing here?”