Chapter 3

In the end, I couldn't bring myself to kick down that door.

When I stepped out of the house, clutching my documents, my manager, Randy Beckham was already fussing at me.

"Chris, hurry up! The investors will be here any minute. By the way, have you heard from Tommy? I've been trying to reach him, but his phone's been off. Do you know where he is?"

I glanced back toward the house, then down at the contract in my hand. "No idea. I haven't been able to reach him either."

Randy was Rachel's cousin. In fact, he was the one who had brought us together in the first place.

Seeing the contract in my hand, his face lit up with satisfaction.

"I told you, didn't I? I've got a good eye for people. You've got potential, kid. Seal this deal, and the manager's chair in the sales department is yours. Rachel will be thrilled, too."

I smiled faintly and said nothing.

Over the past few years, I had worked myself to the bone trying to prove my worth. Early mornings, late nights—the money I earned was mostly spent by Rachel. I always thought that loving someone meant giving them the best.

When I returned home that evening, I found a table full of dishes waiting for me.

Rachel rarely cooked. She claimed the kitchen fumes would ruin her skin. It was only this year that she'd started cooking occasionally. This was the fourth time I'd ever eaten a meal she'd made.

The moment she saw me step through the door, she rushed over, practically skipping.

"Darling, I made your favorite—beef brisket! Go wash your hands!"

She guided me toward the bathroom, a fork in hand. Picking up a piece of beef brisket, she brought it to my mouth.

"Try it. Tell me if it's good."

I chewed on the meat, washing my hands at the same time. "It's delicious," I said.

Later that evening, while she was showering, I decided to take a chance and opened her phone.

We both knew each other's passwords, but we'd never once looked through each other's devices.

Her chat history was intact. As I scrolled through her WhatsApp messages, I found nothing suspicious at first.

Then I tried searching the phrase "miss you."

A name popped up in her recent chats—someone saved as "Miss A."

It had to be Tommy's private number.

I opened the chat. What I found was a stream of explicit messages:

[Miss you. I can't wait to do it with you.]

[Is your husband home?]

[Let's book a hotel tonight. I just took some supplements—guaranteed to please you.]

[Darling, you're better than my husband.]

[Yours is bigger.]

[Don't you dare do anything with Chris tonight!]

*

That was when I learned the truth. They had slept together at least ten times, with four of those encounters taking place right here in my own home.