I came home early from my business trip, only to find the living room door deadbolted from the inside. That wasn’t like her. Lydia was many things—brilliant, icy, meticulous—but she wasn’t someone who locked herself away in her own home. Something was wrong. I pressed the doorbell. It took thirty seconds—an eternity in a silent house—before she finally pulled it open. I spent the next few minutes pretending to unpack, my eyes darting across every corner of the house. I checked the guest room, the laundry room, even the master closet. Nothing. No one. I started to think I was being paranoid, a symptom of a marriage that had felt like treading water for years. Then, Lydia appeared in the hallway, gripping the handle of a suitcase. She told me she had to leave for an emergency conference. I was about to nod, to let her go with the usual polite indifference that defined us. Then, a flicker of light caught my eye. Transparent lines of text began scrolling through the air right in front of my face. ... 1 [The male lead is a genius for hiding in the suitcase! The female lead just has to wheel him out and he’s home free!] [Our boy has such a perfect, lithe frame. If it were that hulking brute Callum, he’d never fit. Poor baby must be so cramped in there, though... ugh, my heart breaks for him!] Oh? Hiding in the suitcase? I reached for my car keys, my expression smoothing into a mask of perfect, terrifying calm. “Honey, let me drive you to the station.” As the glowing text faded, I looked down at the red suitcase in Lydia’s hand. It was a 32-inch hardshell, a gift from my father on our wedding day. It was massive—plenty of room for a person, provided they were willing to fold themselves into a ball. I narrowed my eyes and flashed the most flawless, supportive smile I could muster. “Where’s the conference? How long will you be gone?” She adjusted her gold-rimmed glasses, a nervous tic she thought she’d hidden years ago. “Um, Jersey. A seminar at Princeton. I should be back in three days.” Lydia was a law professor. Tall, statuesque, she commanded a room with the kind of sharp-suited elegance that felt both intellectual and intimidating. I had never once imagined she was capable of something as cliché as an affair. I looked at the suitcase, an idea sparking in my mind. “You always forget the essentials when you’re in a rush, Lydia. It’s freezing out there. Are you sure you packed enough layers? You can’t just wear power suits for three days; you’ll catch a cold. You need a heavy coat.” Lydia’s grip on the handle tightened. “I have everything I need, Callum. Really.” Above my head, more comments began to scroll: [God, Callum is such a controlling freak. Why does he care about a coat right now? He’s going to make her late.] [This isn’t the first time. Remember when she had that faculty gala and he spent twenty minutes obsessing over which blue tie she should wear? He’s a micro-managing nightmare. He just wants her under his thumb!] [Our boy is the total opposite. He’s sweet, submissive, like a little rabbit. It’s no wonder she fell for him.] According to these "comments," I was some kind of villainous, controlling husband in a story I didn’t know I was starring in. And Lydia and the man in that bag? They were the star-crossed lovers. Unreal. Did these people even understand the plot? Did they know why I insisted on the blue tie that night? It was because it matched the donor’s corporate colors—a move that secured her tenure. They wanted a controlling husband? Fine. I’ll give them a performance. “Did you pack that wool overcoat I bought you last month?” I asked, stepping forward and reaching for the suitcase zipper. Panic flared in Lydia’s eyes. She lunged, grabbing the handle with both hands. I didn’t back down. I grabbed the base of the luggage. We stayed like that for a second—a tug-of-war over a red box of secrets. Then, I let go. Lydia wasn’t expecting the sudden lack of resistance. She stumbled back, and the heavy suitcase skidded across the hardwood floor, slamming into the baseboard with a dull, sickening thud. I heard it then. A very faint, muffled groan from inside the shell. Lydia scrambled toward it, checking the corners like it was a crate of Ming vases. The comments surged: [Holy crap! Is this psycho trying to kill our baby?!] [He’s so fragile, he’s basically skin and bones! He can’t take a hit like that!] [I remember his skin is so sensitive... if she even grips his wrist too hard, he bruises like a peach. He’s going to be covered in marks after that crash. Poor thing!] Skin and bones? Sensitive skin? That’s not a romantic trait; that’s a nutrient deficiency or a skin condition. And I knew everyone in Lydia’s circle. Who the hell would be this pathetic? I ran through the keywords—tender, sweet, skin and bones, sensitive. A face began to form in my mind. Could it really be him? I waved a hand dismissively, feigning hurt. “Fine. Pack what you want. I was just trying to help, but I guess I’m just ‘smothering’ you again.” Lydia let out a shaky breath. As she stood up to wheel the bag away, I cut her off. “I’m driving you. No arguments.” I didn’t wait for her to agree. I was already at the door, stepping into my shoes. “It’s fine, Callum. I’ll just call an Uber.” “You’re in a rush, right? Why wait ten minutes for a Prius when I’m standing here with the keys? Unless...” I trailed off, turning to look her dead in the eye. I kept the smile on my lips, but I let my eyes go cold. “You’ve been acting strange since I got home, Lydia. Is there something you’re keeping from me?” Lydia’s shoulders slumped. She looked at the floor, her throat working as she swallowed hard. “No,” she whispered. She looked at the suitcase. Through the glare of her glasses, I saw a flash of raw, agonized protection. She looked back at me, her gaze hardening into something resembling resolve. “Fine. Let’s go. But drive fast, okay? I can’t miss my train.” The station was a twenty-minute drive. Twenty minutes for her to find an excuse to let him out, twenty minutes for them to plan their secret getaway. How romantic. “Trust me, babe,” I said, clicking my car keys. “I’m a great driver. I’ll get you there in record time.” I glanced at the suitcase as she wheeled it past. Get ready for the ride of your life, kiddo. We walked out to the parking lot. To get there, we had to cross a long stretch of decorative cobblestone. Lydia winced with every thump-thump-thump of the suitcase wheels hitting the uneven stones. The sound was loud, rhythmic, and undoubtedly jarring for anyone inside. Her brow was furrowed in sympathy, as if she were the one feeling every jolt. “Oof—” A low, muffled cry drifted out from the suitcase seams. I pretended not to hear it, even as the comments on my "screen" went into a frenzy. [Oh my god, that has to hurt so much.] [My poor baby... stop shaking him!] Lydia stopped. Without a word, she bent down and hoisted the massive, heavy suitcase into her arms, carrying it the rest of the way. I gave her a sweet, puzzled smile. “Honey, that thing is huge. Why are you carrying it? That’s what wheels are for.” Lydia’s jaw was set. “The noise. I don’t want to disturb the neighbors.” The comments swooned: [God, look at that strength. She’s such a queen. Total protector energy!] [We all know she’s fierce in the bedroom, but this? This is love.] By the time we reached the car, Lydia’s arms were shaking from the effort. As she buckled her seatbelt, I saw her right hand trembling with exhaustion. I smiled to myself. I remembered three years ago, when we were hiking and I’d twisted my ankle. I’d asked her to help me down the trail, and she’d snapped at me for being "dramatic" and "needy." She wouldn't bend her "noble" knees for me then. But for the man in the box? She’d carry him across broken glass. Once in the car, I didn't start the engine. I adjusted my hair in the rearview mirror. Then, I slowly opened the GPS and started typing in the address, one letter at a time. Lydia was vibrating with anxiety. After five minutes of me "fiddling" with the settings, she broke. “Callum, please. Can we just go? I’m really running late.” “Sorry, baby,” I said. The word baby felt heavy on my tongue. In five years of marriage, she had only called me that twice. She had been my senior in college, the "Ice Queen" of the law department. Every guy on campus had been obsessed with her. I had spent a year playing the devoted puppy, chasing her until I’d finally worn her down. I thought I’d won the prize. I thought the coldness was just a mask. But even after we married, the ice never melted. Every touch, every "I love you," felt like something I had to earn. And yet, here she was, throwing terms of endearment at me just to protect the guy in the trunk. I slammed my foot on the gas. The Porsche roared to life and surged out of the driveway. “Slow down!” Lydia gasped. I ignored her. I hit a red light and slammed on the brakes. THUD. The suitcase flew forward in the trunk, hitting the back of the seats with a violent crack. Lydia’s face contorted in pain, but she didn’t dare scream. I drove toward the station, humming to myself. “You know, honey,” I said conversationally, “I was thinking about that boy I’ve been sponsoring.” Lydia’s head snapped toward me. “Why are you bringing that up now?” Her reaction was the final piece of the puzzle. I knew it. It was Toby. Toby Vance. The boy from the rural scholarship program my father’s foundation had funded for a decade. I’d personally seen to it that he got out of his small town, got through undergrad, and got into grad school. This was his gratitude. I sighed, putting on a show of regret. “I just feel bad. If I hadn’t introduced you to Toby, you wouldn't have had to waste all that time helping him with his thesis because you felt sorry for him.” “Why are you talking about this?” Lydia’s voice was sharp with suspicion. A year ago, we’d taken Toby out to dinner to celebrate his upcoming graduation. He’d cried at the table—real, fat tears. “Callum, Lydia, you guys are my saviors. My advisor is failing me. If I don't pass this thesis, I lose everything.” He’d claimed he was falling behind because he was working three part-time jobs. I’d found that odd; I sent him $2,000 a month for "living expenses." It wasn't a fortune, but it was plenty for a student. Before I could ask him about the money, Lydia had stepped in. “I’ll write it for you,” she’d said. I’d pulled her aside later. Writing a student’s thesis was academic suicide if she got caught. But she’d brushed me off. “He’s a poor kid from the sticks, Callum. He shouldn't lose his future over one paper. You wouldn't understand. You’ve always looked down on him because of where he’s from. That $2,000 a month? It’s an insult. It’s patronizing.” She had blamed me. Looking back, that dinner must have been the start of it. I forced a smile. “I’m just worried about your tenure review. If the committee finds out you ghost-wrote a student’s work, they’ll destroy you. It’s academic fraud, Lydia.” The comments started flying again: [Please! She was just being a decent person. Callum has such a dirty mind.] [Is Toby not suffered enough? He had to work at a dive bar for a year just to pay back a roommate for a bag he accidentally ripped. If Callum hadn't been so stingy with the allowance, Toby wouldn't have been so stressed!] [Callum basically pushed them together. He deserves to be cheated on.] [Just drive the car! My baby is suffocating in the trunk!] [Wait...] [Why is Callum staring at the trunk so much? Does he know?] [Can he see us?] I kept my eyes on the road. We were approaching a busy intersection. The light turned yellow. I floored it. CRUNCH. I "accidentally" clipped the bumper of the SUV in front of me. SLAM. The car behind us rear-ended me. A three-car pileup. I turned to Lydia, looking sheepish. “I’m so sorry, babe. I thought I could make the light, but the guy in front slammed on his brakes...” Lydia didn't even wait for me to finish. She was out of the car in a second. When she saw the crumpled rear of the Porsche, she looked like she was about to have a stroke. I pulled out my phone. “I’ll call the cops and a tow truck.” Lydia grabbed my wrist. “No. Don’t call the police. It’s your fault anyway.” “I have to call insurance, Lydia.” “I’m in a hurry! Just give them your card and settle it privately!” When I insisted on calling 911, her composure finally shattered. She snatched my phone away, her voice rising to a scream. “Callum! What is wrong with you today? Are you seriously throwing a tantrum because I didn't tell you about a business trip? You are acting like a spoiled brat!” The drivers from the other cars were standing nearby, and Lydia’s outburst went silent across the road. Everyone was staring. A woman from the car behind us—a sturdy, no-nonsense lady in a flannel shirt—marched over. She had a thick Philly accent. “Hey, lady! What’s your problem? Is that any way to talk to your husband?” Lydia looked at her like she was an insect. “Excuse me? Who are you?” The woman stood her ground, hands on her hips. “I’m the person you just backed into, honey. And I might drive a beat-up Ford, but I’ve never yelled at my man in the middle of the street like a banshee.” She turned to me and lowered her voice. “Don’t let her walk over you, sweetie. I’ll stay here and give the statement.” Then, she looked at the trunk. “You’re going on a trip, right?” She reached for the latch. “Let me help you with this bag. I’ll put it on the curb so she can grab her Uber and leave you in peace.” She grabbed the red suitcase before either of us could react. She hoisted it over her head with surprising strength. “Jesus!” she grunted. “What’s in here? A dead body?”
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