Chapter 1

"Honey, I picked up a cake from your favorite bakery. Come on over," Bernard Jackman said.

I laughed, threw myself into his arms, wrapped my arms around his neck, and kissed him.

"Look at you spoiling me with cake," I teased.

He gave me an indulgent smile, scooped me up, and set me gently on the couch.

As always, he was meticulous. He unpacked the cake, poured drinks, and placed everything onto the coffee table.

"Dig in, my little foodie. I'm going to shower."

I nodded and tasted the cake. The moment the first bite hit my tongue, I spit it back out. Confusion prickled through me as I glanced toward the bathroom.

The filling was mango.

I still remember the last time I ate a mango. It sent me to the emergency room with anaphylaxis.

That night, Bernard held my hand without letting go, his eyes reddened as he promised he'd never let mango near me again.

I told myself maybe he had no idea what was in it, but he was always so careful.

The thought stuck like a thorn in my chest.

I walked into the bedroom and, out of habit, straightened the clothes he had tossed on the bed.

Right then, his phone buzzed. A message popped up. "Bernie, the mango cake you took me to get today was so good. Love you, kisses!"

The contact name was "My little foodie".

I stared at the phone for a moment. Then, my fingers moved on their own, entering the passcode I'd known for years.

The next second, the screen unlocked. He had never even bothered to change it. He probably never thought I'd check his phone.

I opened his messages. My thread wasn't the only one pinned to the top. The other belonged to that little foodie.

I tapped it and scrolled all the way up. The visible history started a month ago. Anything older had been wiped.

The very first message struck me like a slap I never saw coming.

"Bernie, come keep me company tonight, okay?"

"Okay. I'll be there. I'll keep you satisfied. Don't tell me you can't take it!"

"You're such a tease. Maybe I should ignore you."

"My bad!"

I kept scrolling, breath caught in my throat, until I saw the line that knocked the air out of me.

"Bernie, be honest. Who's better in bed, me or your wife?"

"Come on. That old hag smells like mothballs. She doesn't hold a candle to you!"

Tears blurred my vision and dripped onto my hand. I wiped them away, steadied myself, and took out my phone to take photos of the messages.