The Night Before Christmas

Aria’s POV

It was our anniversary.

Mark Smith and I had been married for eight years, and we had a beautiful daughter. Hailey was as old as our marriage, born on the very day Mark and I said I do. Every year, her birthday and our wedding anniversary collided into one celebration. One cake. One toast. One illusion of a perfect family.

I worked as a sales manager for a real estate company owned by Desmond Howard, the only heir to the Howard estate empire. He had properties scattered across the country, and I managed one of his branches. I earned well. Well enough to carry the household.

Mark, on the other hand, worked as a food attendant at a twenty-four-hour food joint.

Technically, I earned far more than he did. So I took care of the house. The bills. The extras. And I did it gladly, because I believed in us.

We were happy. One big, happy family.

Or at least, that was what I thought, until the night before Christmas. The night of our anniversary.

Mark told me he was scheduled for the night shift. I believed him. I always did. And because I loved him, because I had spent eight years choosing him every single day, I decided to do what I always did on our anniversary.

I made dinner.

Nothing extravagant, just warm, familiar food. The kind that says home. The three of us sat together at the dining table, laughter filling the room as Christmas lights blinked softly in the background.

“Aria,” Mark said, lifting his glass of wine, “you’re God-sent. I’m glad I chose you as my wife eight years ago.”

Hailey giggled and raised her glass of fruit juice. I smiled and lifted mine too, my heart swelling.

“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he continued. “And like I always say, every anniversary....”

“One day, you’ll make it,” Hailey cut in proudly, “and you’ll buy Mummy and me a mansion.”

We all laughed.

I had no idea that was the last time laughter would feel real.

After dinner, I cleared the table while Mark changed into his uniform. He kissed Hailey goodnight, pecked my cheek, and walked out the door.

I put Hailey to bed and, because it was only eight o’clock, settled on the balcony with a book, my favourite novel, one I’d read more times than I could count.

That was when my phone buzzed.

I glanced at it. An unfamiliar number. I frowned and picked it up, already prepared to block yet another spam message.

But my fingers froze.

If you want to know exactly where your husband is and what he is doing, call me.

My heart skipped. A thousand thoughts raced through my mind in the space of a second, but I shut them all down. Mark wouldn’t hurt me. Not Mark. Not the man I had built my life around.

I deleted the message and blocked the number.

Almost immediately, another notification came through, from a different number.

A video.

My hands began to tremble. I told myself not to open it. I meant to delete it.

Instead, I pressed play.

The world tilted.

Mark was on a couch. Naked. A woman knelt between his legs, her head buried against him. Another woman sat beside him, casually caressing his chest as if she belonged there.

“No… no, this isn’t real,” I whispered, tears spilling before I could stop them.

Another video dropped.

I watched this one too.

My husband had the woman bent over a table, thrusting into her as if his life depended on it. The sounds were unmistakable. The desperation was unmistakable.

A P*F followed.

Transaction records.

Clothes. Jewellery. Two cars.

Two names stood out like scars: Clara and Cynthia.

“No… no… no,” I sobbed, the phone slipping from my hand as it hit the floor.

“Mummy?”

Hailey’s voice.

I lifted my head quickly, wiping my tears.

“Why are you crying?”

“I’m not,” I said too fast. “I was cutting onions.”

She frowned. “On the balcony? I don’t see any onions, Mummy.”

She walked closer and picked up my phone before I could stop her. My heart pounded, but the cracked screen hid everything.

“Mummy,” she said softly, touching my face, “why are you crying?”

“Th...the wind,” I said. “And the story I’m reading, it’s very sad.”

She hesitated. “I can’t sleep.”

“Why, sweetheart?”

“I had a nightmare,” she said quietly. “You and Daddy were fighting… and you stabbed him with a broken wine bottle.”

My chest tightened.

I hugged her without a word, holding her tighter than I ever had before.

Later, after she fell asleep again, I blocked the numbers. All of them. I lay awake through the night, staring at the ceiling, replaying everything I’d seen. Battling between it being real or fake. 

At five in the morning, Christmas Day, Mark walked into the bedroom.

I pretended to be asleep.

He placed his phone on the bedside table and went into the bathroom. Moments later, it vibrated.

For the first time in eight years, I picked up my husband's phone.

A message flashed on the screen.

Tonight was amazing. Hope you’ll spend Christmas with me.

My breath caught. 

I was still holding the phone when he stepped back into the room.

“Aria,” he said sharply. “What are you doing with my phone?”

I looked up at him.

“Who is Clara?”

He froze.