Chapter 1

I set my husband Simon Mercer's phone face down on the coffee table.

The sound of running water in the bathroom ceased. Simon emerged, drying his hair with a towel.

As usual, he picked up his phone and swiped it a couple of times. His expression remained the same.

I stared at his profile. It had been 11 years between college and where we were now. I could draw his face from memory with my eyes shut.

Simon abruptly turned around. "Is something the matter?"

"No, it's nothing."

He smiled and reached out to tuck my hair behind my ear.

His fingertips brushed against my earlobe. It was cool to the touch and carried the fresh grapefruit scent of his body wash.

"You must be exhausted," he said. "Hurry up and get some rest."

I nodded, but I didn't get a wink of sleep that night.

…

I called in sick for work the following day. As soon as his car pulled out of the residential complex, I went back home and powered on his spare phone.

There was no "L" in his contacts, but those photos were still sitting in the cache folder. It wasn't just the one from last night. There were photos from two years ago, a year ago, half a year ago… different settings, featuring the same woman.

In front of the floor-to-ceiling windows of a hotel, she was wrapped in a bathrobe, clutching a glass of red wine. On a seaside boardwalk, she had her arm linked through his against the backdrop of a setting sun. At a pizzeria, she was feeding him a slice of pizza.

The last photo was recent. She had a baby bump, and her hand was resting on top of it while he leaned down to kiss her forehead. The photo had been taken two months ago.

My phone chimed.

I'd received a message from him. "Things are quiet at the institute today, so I'll come home for dinner tonight. What do you feel like eating? I'll buy the ingredients."

I locked the screen and left him on read.

Then, I called the pizzeria from the photo. "Hello, I'd like to check a reservation record from around three months ago for a window seat in a private room. The reservation was made under the last name Mercer."

"Just a moment... Mr. Mercer, correct? Yes, I found it. It was a reservation for a table for two. The accompanying lady's last name was Rhodes."

I hung up the phone.

Simon had never taken me to a pizzeria. He always claimed he didn't like pizza.

As it turned out, he didn't dislike pizza. He simply didn't want to eat it with me.

It took me a week to find out who she was. Lillian Rhodes, 31 years old, a cellist with the Municipal Symphony Orchestra.

She was neither his first love nor a casual one-night stand. She had entered his life far earlier than I had imagined.

Eight years ago, when he gave a charity lecture for the orchestra, she was sitting in the front row of the audience.

Seven years ago, when he was invited to attend a New Year's concert, she performed a solo, and he brought her flowers.

Six years ago, we had just gotten our marriage certificate.

That was also the year when a certain "Mr. Mercer" began appearing frequently on her social media. He didn't reveal his face, only his hands. He helped her out of the car, carried her cello case for her, and held a glass of red wine on her birthday.

I went through every single post she'd made in the last five years.

Lillian had posted a sheet music score with the caption, "This is the seventh year since he taught me how to read music."

She'd posted a picture of a Ragdoll cat. "When you're not here, it keeps me company in your place."

She'd posted a blurry view from a window with the caption, "He promised he'd bring me back here again next time.