Chapter 1

...

"Did someone come over?" I asked, pulling away from his kiss and fixing my gaze on the showerhead, my voice steady despite the unease creeping into my chest.

My husband, Nick Doyle, followed my stare, and color drained from his face. He stammered, "Oh, Randy stayed over for a couple of days. You were away, and I was bored, so I invited him to hang out and have a few drinks."

The words hit me like a punch, sapping my strength. Randy Dupont was his best friend and the secretary at a partner's company. I had met him just yesterday, and Nick was lying.

"Go shower," I said, pushing him out of my arms. "I'll make you dinner."

He bit his lip, his eyes glistening with sadness. "Honey, do you not love me anymore?"

I swallowed a bitter laugh. He was the one whose heart was no longer in it.

"It's fine," he added quickly, brushing off his own question with a forced smile. "I know you're tired. I'll go shower."

He leaned in, planting a rough kiss on my cheek. But as he bent forward, I glimpsed the faint marks peppering the skin beneath his collar.

That further confirmed my suspicion. I turned away, wiping his kiss from my face with a trembling hand.

We'd been married for seven years. Everyone said I must have saved the galaxy in a past life to land a man like him. But no one knew that I had turned down three promotions just to stay close to him.

He'd said distance made him feel insecure, and I'd believed him. I'd even offered to bring him with me, but he refused, citing his thriving career and his pride in not wanting to be like a kept man.

Now I saw the truth: it wasn't his career he was protecting. It was his mistress.

The sound of running water echoed from the bathroom. His voice rang out, laced with panic. "Honey! You showered already? Why didn't you set the water temperature for me?"

"I haven't," I replied, my voice cold.

His silhouette, blurred through the frosted glass door, froze for a moment. Then he mumbled, "Oh, must be the water heater acting up."

His phone, left outside, blared with a piercing ring. The caller ID flashed: Master.

I reached for it, but the bathroom door flew open. Nick lunged forward, snatched the phone, and hid it behind his back, ending the call with a clumsy swipe.

I stared at him, his body tightly swaddled in the towel, and a bitter laugh rose in my throat. He avoided my eyes, his voice shaky with guilt. "It's just work. I was expecting a call from the office, so I got a bit anxious. Ugh, just a spam call. I'm going back to shower. Hurry up with dinner. I'm starving."

He spun around, retreating to the bathroom and locking the door behind him.

Calmly, I picked up his tablet and unlocked it with the fingerprint I'd discreetly recorded long ago. The screen lit up with messages between him and the woman labeled Master—vile, explicit exchanges that made my stomach churn.

[That was close. Almost got caught by my wife.]

[What's the big deal? Didn't you say it was thrilling doing it on your bed?]

[You little minx, getting me all worked up.]

My blood boiled. I pressed the record button, my fingers whitening from the force. But as more messages flooded in, I stopped myself.

This wasn't enough. These messages alone wouldn't be enough to ruin them.

Their conversation grew increasingly lurid. Silently, I pulled out my phone and recorded the evidence. Then I checked out the woman's social media profile.

It was someone I knew. If my memory served me right, her name was Diana Parker. She was Nick's boss and had dealt with us in business.

I scrolled through their chat history and pinpointed the day their relationship had crossed the line. Three months. That was how long it had been.

The bathroom door creaked open. I quickly turned off the tablet and put it back on the table.

Nick emerged with a flushed face, his eyes flickering with nervous guilt. He looked like he wanted to say something but couldn't find the words.

"Go change," I said coolly. "I'll heat your dinner."

He nodded and hurried to the bedroom. I walked toward the kitchen, and as we passed each other, I allowed myself a small, bitter smile.

Enjoy your last meal, Nick.