While I was walking Caramel, he darted off with a confident sense of purpose, making a beeline for the 22nd floor of the building next to ours. He stopped at apartment 2201, his tail wagging furiously. I was still trying to process it when the door opened. A pretty girl in slippers appeared. She knelt and joyfully ruffled Caramel’s fur, then looked up at me. “You must be the courier. Just tell Leo I’ll take good care of his dog.” She turned back to the golden retriever. “Come on, sweetie. Mommy’s making you a venison salad today.” Leo is my husband. Caramel is the dog we’ve raised for three years. It turns out that during the six months I was away on business, Leo found a new mommy for our dog. 1 I had just gotten back from a six-month work assignment overseas, the jet lag still clinging to me like a heavy shroud, when Caramel insisted on his walk. He’s a three-year-old Golden Retriever, usually gentle, but with a surprising amount of strength. Right now, he was practically vibrating with excitement, dragging me forward, and confidently veering towards the building next to ours. I was a little confused. We live in building 11, but Caramel was pulling me into the elevator of building 12. The elevator ascended to the 22nd floor. The second the doors opened, Caramel bolted down the hallway to 2201, propping his front paws on the door, his tail a high-speed propeller. My mind was a complete blank, the leash nearly slipping from my grasp. What was going on? Why was Caramel so familiar with this apartment? As I stood there, bewildered, the door clicked open. A pretty girl stood in the doorway. “Caramel! Did you miss me?” she cooed, crouching down to affectionately rub his big, fluffy head, completely ignoring my presence. Caramel licked her face enthusiastically, whining with contentment. The display of affection was more intense than any greeting he ever gave me, his actual owner. My heart began to sink, stone by heavy stone. The girl finally straightened up, her eyes landing on me with an air of casual authority. “You’re the courier, right? Thanks for this.” She gestured towards Caramel. “Tell Leo I’ll take good care of his dog. Oh, and he’s already paid, right?” She turned to Caramel. “Come on, sweetie. Mommy’s making you a venison salad today.” Leo…? Leo. My husband. A buzzing filled my head, and my limbs went numb. But some shred of rationality stopped me from exploding, urging me to confirm it wasn't some bizarre misunderstanding. “Leo is—” “My boyfriend. Didn’t he ask you to bring Caramel over?” she said. Seeing my hesitation, her smile faded, replaced by a flicker of impatience. “What’s wrong? Didn’t you hear me? Give him to me.” She reached for the leash, which I was gripping with white knuckles. So, this was it. While I was working my ass off halfway across the world to build a future for us, my husband hadn't just cheated; he had thoughtfully found a new mother for our dog. How utterly ridiculous. His mistress thought I was a delivery service. I looked at Caramel, who was now fawning over her, and a wave of icy coldness washed over the initial pain. I didn’t scream. I didn’t demand answers. Instead, I slowly, deliberately, pulled my lips into a smile and loosened my grip on the leash. “Of course,” I said, my voice steady. “Mr. Knight’s instructions were to deliver him directly to you.” The girl took the leash, satisfied, and casually shut the door. Just as it closed, I heard her say, “Good boy. Mommy will get you your treat right now.” I stood in front of apartment 2201 for a long, long time. The elevator doors opened and closed several times before I finally turned and walked back to my own home. The apartment was spotless. Leo’s perfectly ironed shirts hung on the balcony. Everything was just as neat as when I had left six months ago. But there was something else in the air. The faint, unfamiliar scent of perfume. It was the exact same scent the girl at the door had been wearing. If I hadn’t decided on a whim to fly halfway across the world to surprise him, I never would have discovered any of this. 2 At seven o’clock that evening, Leo came home right on time. As usual, he changed his shoes in the entryway. When he saw me, he froze, a flash of panic in his eyes. But he recovered quickly, breaking into a wide smile. “Vivi! You’re back! Why didn’t you tell me? I would have picked you up from the airport.” He opened his arms, moving in for a hug. I fought back a wave of nausea and sidestepped the embrace, not wanting to start the fight just yet. I calmly explained that my project had wrapped up early. He feigned concern, stroking my cheek. “You’ve lost weight. It must have been tough out there. But you’re back now, that’s all that matters. I’ll make all your favorites to fatten you up. What are you craving? Steak, shrimp scampi, a nice risotto?” He was really getting into his role as the perfect, doting husband, already pulling out his phone to order groceries. I gently pushed him away, my voice deliberately casual. “We can figure that out later. Where’s Caramel? Where’s our boy?” It had been our agreement. We weren't having children; Caramel was our child. Leo paused. A flicker of confusion crossed his face. He was right to be confused. Usually, Caramel would be all over him the second he walked in, begging for attention. “We should call the police,” I said, my voice tight with manufactured panic. “The front door was unlocked when I got here, and Caramel was gone! Someone must have stolen him! Or… or he opened the door himself.” It was possible. Our dog was exceptionally smart. He knew how to open doors and even press elevator buttons. I was certain that if I hadn't come home today, Caramel would have eventually gotten bored and let himself out to visit his new mommy. The smile on Leo’s face vanished. “He’s really gone? Have you looked for him?” he asked, his tone urgent. I shook my head. “Instead of the police, let’s just ask security to check the cameras. The guards all know our dog; they wouldn’t let a stranger take him out of the complex. He’s probably still around here somewhere.” I watched his face, dissecting every micro-expression. Leo’s brow furrowed. He pulled out his phone, his thumb flying across the screen as he typed a message. A few seconds later, he seemed to relax. “You’re right,” he said, looking up at me. “I just contacted security. They said they’ve already found him. You must be exhausted from your flight. Why don’t you go take a shower and rest? I’ll go get our son back.” He was a phenomenal actor. That text message, I knew, had gone straight to apartment 2201. To Lila. He must have asked her if Caramel had shown up there. Lila, likely unaware of my existence, probably thought some good Samaritan had found him and brought him to her. It didn't matter if their stories didn't line up. I was done playing the role of the devoted wife. As soon as he was out the door, I would find the proof I needed, and then he could get the hell out of my life. I followed his suggestion, letting a note of weary relief enter my voice. “Okay. Please hurry back. I’m so worried about him.” “Don’t worry,” he said, grabbing his car keys and rushing out. The moment the elevator doors closed, I walked into his study. His computer was password-protected, but it also had facial recognition. My face. It unlocked instantly. I didn't bother with his social media; a meticulous cheater wouldn't leave such obvious evidence. I opened his cloud drive. Everything was neatly organized: work files, family photos, and one encrypted folder named “My Treasure.” My heart began to pound. What was the password? I tried my birthday. Incorrect. Our anniversary. Incorrect. Caramel's birthday. Still incorrect. I stared at the folder, and then a cold realization dawned on me. I typed in the number from the girl’s door this afternoon: 2201. The folder opened. 3 There were no sordid photos or videos inside. That wasn’t Leo’s style. He had a pretentious, artsy streak and liked to think of himself as a man of class. Instead, the folder was filled with documents, named by date. I clicked on the earliest one, dated five months ago—exactly one month after I had left for my trip. April 12th. Rain. I met her today. She was like a fawn, lost and pure, with the clearest eyes and the warmest smile. She said her name was Lila, gentle like a late evening breeze. I think my heart stopped. April 25th. Sunny. Lila found out I love the mousse from that bakery on the west side and stood in line for two hours to get it for me. With Vivi, I’m always the one making compromises. She prefers bland, healthy food and never touches anything sweet. But I love sweets. I never knew how wonderful it felt to have someone cater to me. May 20th. To thank her, I took Lila to that hilltop restaurant we used to go to. She was so surprised and happy. I told her it was a place I used for business meetings. Seeing the trust in her eyes, I felt a pang of guilt, but it was overshadowed by a secret thrill. Vivi always said that place was overpriced and the food was mediocre. She never understood that you don’t go there for the food; you go there to share a perfect view with the person you love. Vivi doesn’t get me. But Lila does. … My face was a mask of stone as I scrolled, page after page. These weren't diary entries. They were justifications. Excuses he was writing to rationalize and even romanticize his affair. In his narrative, I was the demanding, boring, workaholic wife with no zest for life. And this girl, Lila, was the muse sent to rescue him from the drudgery of our marriage. He twisted every mundane aspect of our three years together into a fault of mine. Me ironing his shirts so he looked sharp and professional? That was me being a controlling perfectionist. Me reminding him to drink less for his health? That was me being overbearing. Me working hard to build a better future for us? In his eyes, that made me a “career woman who obviously didn’t need him.” The logic was laughable. But the entry that truly chilled me to the bone was about Caramel. July 8th. Lila said she loves Caramel and wants to raise him. I brought him over to her place. She renamed him ‘Sweetie.’ Seeing how much he adored her, I suddenly realized this is the life Caramel should have. Vivi loves him, I guess, but she’s too busy. She never has enough time for him. Lila is different. She has all the time in the world to play with him, cook him nutritious meals, and spoil him like the child he is. It was just as I suspected. He hadn't just betrayed me. He had betrayed our promise. He had personally handed our “son” over to another woman. I closed the document. The roiling nausea in my stomach finally subsided, replaced by a cold, dead silence. Leo was home. 4 I sat in the living room in complete darkness. Leo came in with Caramel on the leash, eager to show off. “See, Vivi? I found him!” He handed the leash to me, his tone light. “I told you he was a smart boy. He didn’t go far. He was just sniffing around the garden next door, probably trying to make new friends.” The lie rolled off his tongue so naturally, as if he’d rehearsed it a thousand times. Caramel, as if sensing he’d done something wrong, nudged my leg and whimpered apologetically. I looked at the two of them, the man and the dog, and suddenly, the whole charade felt pointless. Just then, the doorbell rang. Leo’s body tensed for a fraction of a second before he smoothed over his expression and walked to the door. “Who could that be at this hour?” Standing outside, of course, was Lila. She had changed out of her slippers and was now wearing a simple white t-shirt and jeans, her long hair tied back in a ponytail. She looked so young, so innocent. Her eyes lit up when she saw Leo, but then she seemed to remember herself, her gaze shifting past him to land on me. “It’s you—” she started, her brow furrowing in confusion. Leo was frantically trying to signal her to leave, but she either didn’t see or chose to ignore him. “Leo… oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Knight,” she said, playfully sticking her tongue out. Then she looked past him, her face a mask of concern. “I thought I heard a dog barking downstairs and I got worried it might be Sweetie… I mean, your dog. I’m so relieved to see he’s back safe and sound.” Her little speech was dripping with implications. Anyone could tell they were more than just acquaintances. Leo, clearly annoyed by her little performance, was trying to laugh it off when our “son” betrayed him. The moment Caramel saw her, he bounded over, whining with excitement and circling her legs. Lila seized the opportunity, crouching down and expertly wrapping her arms around his neck, nuzzling his fur. Her voice was sickly sweet. “Sweetie, you naughty boy! You can’t just run off without telling Mommy! You scared me to death!” The words hung in the air. She gasped, clapping a hand over her mouth as if she’d just made a terrible mistake. Her large eyes glistened as she looked at me. “Oh my gosh, I am so sorry, ma’am!” She scrambled to her feet, wringing her hands. “I… I’m just so used to helping Mr. Knight look after him, I guess I started joking around, calling myself his mommy… You look so beautiful and elegant, I can tell you’re a very understanding person. You won’t be offended by my silly joke, will you?” She called me “ma’am” with such deference, but every word was a poisoned dart aimed straight at my heart. She was a master of her craft. Leo stood by, his expression a mixture of panic and embarrassment. I looked from one to the other, and then I smiled. I walked over, gently but firmly took the leash from Lila’s hand, and stroked Caramel’s head. My voice was calm and clear. “It’s okay. I’m not offended.” Then I looked up, my gaze sweeping over Leo and Lila, my smile widening. “But a word of advice, young lady. You should be more careful with your ‘jokes’ in the future. Not everyone is as understanding as I am. After all, calling another woman’s husband by his first name and her dog your son… well, it doesn’t reflect well on you, does it?” They both stared at me, stunned into silence. I pulled out my phone and, right in front of them, made a call. “Hello, Ms. Davis? It’s Vivian Scott.” I watched the color drain from Leo’s face, my smile turning colder. “I’m filing for divorce. Yes, division of assets. He’s the at-fault party. I want at least seventy percent.”
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