1 A stranger started appearing in my social media logs, the account where I posted about my marriage. For a month, she kept visiting. Finally, I messaged her: [Who are you?] After a long silence, she posted three updates. The first text read: [First saw you a month ago. You were buying irises for your wife after work, saying they were her favorite. Mine too.] My husband had been bringing me irises daily for a month, claiming he bought them near his office. The second post showed two hands holding each other. The man’s hand had a hexagram tattoo—identical to the one on my husband’s hand. The caption: [Our first time holding hands.] My hands shook as I opened the third post. It was an ultrasound report with the message: [I’m pregnant. So, are you going to divorce your wife?] … I stared, frozen, at the glaring image of the ultrasound report on my phone screen. I recognized every word, every medical term. But now, they swam before my eyes, blurring into an incomprehensible mess. I blinked hard, again and again, until the woman’s name finally swam into focus: Serena. A name I didn’t know, a name I had never once heard James mention. I kept telling myself it had to be a coincidence. It had to be. Any man in the world could cheat, but not James. Never James. His entire paycheck went into our joint account. He was home on time from the gym. When he was home, he took on the lion’s share of the housework without a word of complaint. He had no bad habits to speak of, save for the occasional weekend workout or badminton game. I had free rein to look at his phone, to check his bank statements whenever I wanted. He was, in the words of all my friends, the flawless, ideal husband. Even my parents, who hadn't been his biggest fans initially, now sang his praises. Him, cheating? It was impossible. But once a seed of doubt is planted, it grows with monstrous speed. The conflicting thoughts ricocheting around my head all day nearly drove me mad. So, when it was time for James to get off work, I left the house. I found a spot inside a convenience store across from his office building and waited, hidden from view. At 6:05 PM, right on schedule, James walked out of his building and headed straight for the flower shop next door. My breath caught in my throat, my nails digging unconsciously into my palms. But the moment I saw the shop owner, a wave of relief washed over me. The woman was… plain. Unremarkable. She looked a couple of years older than James, and more importantly, there was a little boy of about seven or eight at her side. Clearly a mother. James walked in and expertly picked out a bouquet of irises, handing them to the woman to be wrapped. He even chose my favorite shade of wrapping paper, a pale, soft blue. A small smile touched my lips. The anxiety that had been twisting my gut all day finally unknotted. I even felt a pang of guilt, chiding myself for being so paranoid and sensitive ever since the miscarriage. No wonder James, when pushed to his limit, had told me he felt like he was suffocating sometimes. After our biggest fight ever last month, I had actually started to reflect on my behavior. James’s face, etched with exhaustion, was seared into my memory. “I’m already exhausted from working all day to support us,” he’d said. “I don’t want to come home and be interrogated like a criminal.” He was right. I had been pushing him too hard. But just as I was about to step out and surprise him, my eyes widened in disbelief. The florist didn’t take the flowers right away. Instead, she stood on her toes and planted a quick, butterfly-light kiss on his cheek. James didn’t push her away. He simply rested his hand on the small of her back, a gesture of casual intimacy. My hand, resting on the door handle, began to shake. The scene unfolding before me was so absurd, it burned. It merged with another memory, a scene from six months ago, right after I found out I was pregnant. That night, James hadn't pushed away the girl a client had shoved into his lap. I’d gone to find him, worried he was too drunk, and I saw it all through the small glass window of the private room door. I watched him drink the liquor she fed to him with her own hands. The emotional shock of it all sent me into premature labor. I lost our first child that day. Later, James knelt by my hospital bed, his eyes red-rimmed, explaining that it was just business, just an act. He couldn't risk offending the client by rejecting the girl so bluntly. He swore he had no feelings for her whatsoever. What were his exact words back then? He’d said, “Those women have nothing on you. They can’t compare to your looks, your education, your background, the way you carry yourself.” “Olivia,” he’d sworn, “I’m not stupid enough to cheat with someone who’s a downgrade.” I don’t remember how I got home. It was the sound of the front door opening that pulled me from the suffocating fog. James stood there, a bouquet of flowers in one hand and a bag of fresh groceries in the other. He sounded cheerful. “How about beef and asparagus for dinner?” His tone was so light, so normal. But to me, it felt like a boulder crashing down, shattering what was left of my heart. I finally looked up at him, my voice trembling. “James, have you done anything to betray me?” 2 James froze, his expression stiffening. A second later, he forced an unnatural smile. “Liv, what’s with you? Getting suspicious again?” “You keep such a tight leash on me,” he continued, his voice growing steadier, more confident. “You really have nothing to worry about.” He sounded so sure of himself, his tone even bordering on impatient by the end. He looked like a man with a perfectly clear conscience. Seven years together, five of them married. I knew him too well. James was a man driven by pride and ambition. That’s why he’d worked himself to the bone, clawing his way up the corporate ladder in just a few years—all because he couldn't stand the thought of people saying he’d married up by being with me. But that same pride made him incredibly stubborn. He would never, ever admit to anything unless he was caught red-handed. I managed a weak smile, my eyes drifting to his phone, which he’d casually dropped on the entryway table. He had a routine. The first thing he always did after coming home was take a shower. Sure enough, seeing that I wasn’t pushing the issue, he seemed to think I was just bluffing. He let out a barely audible sigh of relief. “Whatever. I’m used to you accusing me of things anyway.” “I’m going to go shower,” he said. “I’ll make you something delicious when I’m out.” Just like always, he left his phone behind, probably not wanting to make me more suspicious by taking it into the bathroom. Or maybe he just knew that I’d always been the trusting type, that I’d never stooped to secretly checking his phone. But this time was different. I’d already called my best friend earlier today, the one who specializes in divorce law. She told me that with what I had, proving infidelity in court would be difficult. That’s why I hadn’t confronted him with everything just yet. I had pulled strings for him, using my father’s connections to discreetly pave his way, all to protect his fragile ego. He had indeed soared, but if he was the one who had wronged me, then he deserved to be the one to crash and burn. James was cautious; I’ll give him that. A quick scan of his phone revealed no obvious clues. His chat logs were filled with colleagues and business partners, all labeled with their company and title. Until I opened the chat with his “Badminton Coach.” [Mr. Knight, I’ve sent over the photos from last week’s session. Please check them.] [You and your wife make a great pair. You’re both very talented.] I had never played badminton with him in my life. So of course, the woman in the picture wasn’t me. It was her. The woman from the flower shop. The shutter had clicked at the exact moment their eyes met, their gazes overflowing with a love that was supposed to be mine. A tear fell, then another, splashing onto the cold glass of the screen. The sound of the shower, muffled by the door, was the only thing that drowned out my choked sobs. And then, I found more. In a chat log with a contact saved as “S. Reid,” I found a running commentary of his entire life. What he had for lunch, a great song he’d heard, whether he was stuck in traffic on his way to or from work. James shared every mundane detail of his day with her. I realized with a jolt that because I’d been so distracted all day, I hadn’t messaged him once. And he hadn’t sent me a single word. Like a thief, I scrolled through their private world, my fingers moving on their own, peeking at a happiness that wasn’t mine to see. I was so engrossed that I didn’t even hear the water shut off. The sound of the bathroom door opening startled me back to reality. I instinctively exited the app and locked the screen. He emerged from the bathroom just in time to see me setting the phone down. Panic flashed across his face. “Were you checking my phone?” “If you haven’t done anything wrong, what are you so afraid of?” I shot back, a sarcastic smile playing on my lips. But before I could say another word, he strode towards me and snatched the phone from my hands. The sharp edge of the phone case scraped across my palm, hard. A line of red beaded up instantly. But James didn't even notice. He was already launching into a tirade. “Olivia, do you have any idea how you’re driving me crazy?!” “I know you’re from a wealthy family, that you were marrying down when you chose me, but haven’t I been good enough to you?!” “Do you know what I feel like?” he spat, his voice raw with wounded pride. “A dog on a leash, and you’re holding the other end!” His ego, finally unleashed, consumed him. He threw on his clothes and stormed out of the apartment. The heavy slam of the door echoed in the now-empty room, leaving me alone with the sound of my own weeping, which I could no longer hold back. I don’t know how long I cried. Eventually, exhausted, I just lay there, staring blankly at the ceiling. That’s when my phone lit up. That same account had a new post. [He knows I’m pregnant. He was so happy.] [He told me to keep the baby.] The phone slipped from my grasp, clattering to the floor. It landed face up, the screen glowing. And just as I looked, a new notification appeared. It was a direct message from her. [I know you’ve found out. Let’s meet.] 3 I never thought it was possible. I never imagined someone could be a homewrecker and be so brazenly proud of it. Serena sat down across from me, her eyes scanning me up and down, making no effort to hide her appraisal. “You’re not as beautiful as I imagined,” she said with a smirk. “But I guess looks don’t matter in the end. He’s mine now, isn’t he?” I squeezed my spoon, stirring my latte so hard the foam art dissolved, fighting the primal urge to throw the scalding coffee in her face. I took a deep breath. “You’re a woman. A mother, even,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “Aren’t you afraid that one day, people will point fingers at your son because of what you’ve done?” She burst out laughing, as if I’d just told the world’s funniest joke. “Let me be honest with you,” she said, leaning forward. “My ex-husband left me for someone else, too. I was just like you back then—confused, devastated, I made a huge scene. But then I met James. And I finally understood. When love hits you, you just… you don’t care about anything else.” Her shamelessness was so profound it was almost comical. I nearly laughed myself. After a moment, I stared directly into her eyes. “He hasn’t actually agreed to divorce me, has he?” The smug satisfaction on Serena’s face instantly froze. I knew I was right. “James isn’t an idiot,” I said, letting out a dismissive scoff. “You really think he’d leave a wife like me… for you?” “Do you have any idea what kind of people he works with, the circles he moves in? If he actually divorced me and married you, what could you possibly bring him besides utter embarrassment?” My words hit their mark. Serena shot to her feet, her expression twisting into a mask of fury. “What are you so proud of? So what if you were born with a silver spoon in your mouth? You still couldn’t even keep your own man!” she shrieked. “I bet if we both messaged him right now, he would choose me without a second thought!” I raised an eyebrow, took out my phone right in front of her, and sent James a text. [Honey, my stomach hurts really bad. Can you take me to the hospital?] Serena, desperate to prove her point, did the same, her voice in the audio message dripping with a sickening sweetness that made my stomach turn. “James, honey, I’m not feeling so well. Do you think you were a little too rough last night? I’m worried about the baby.” Five minutes later, both our phones buzzed. James had replied. His text to me read: [I'm in a meeting. Go to the hospital yourself.] His reply to her was a voice message. His tone was laced with pure panic. “Where are you? I’m on my way. Don’t move.” As the message finished playing, a triumphant grin spread across Serena’s face. “You lose. Now get out.” “So what? As long as he doesn’t divorce me, you’ll always be the dirty little secret, the other woman who can never be seen in the light of day!” I snatched my purse, my whole body radiating a fury that looked completely genuine, as if I had been pushed past my breaking point. I stormed out of the café under her gloating gaze. James arrived faster than I expected. The second he saw Serena, he rushed to her, grabbing her hand, ready to whisk her away. She whispered something in his ear. I saw the tension visibly drain from his body. He smiled, then reached out and gave her nose an affectionate tap. Hiding just outside the café, I bit the inside of my cheek, hard, fighting back a wave of nausea. My hand, holding my phone up to record, was steadier than I could have ever imagined. That night, James came home as usual. He saw me sitting on the sofa, watching TV, and paused for a moment. Then, he came over and sat beside me. His voice was casual, but I could hear the subtle note of probing beneath it. “Honey, I’m sorry. I was just so stressed from work yesterday, I said some things I didn’t mean.” “Are you okay? Did you end up going to the hospital?” A faint, cloying scent of perfume clung to him. The same one Serena had been wearing. It was suffocating. I feigned indifference, pushing him away slightly. “Move. You’re blocking the TV.” He visibly relaxed. He murmured an obedient “okay” and disappeared into the bathroom. The moment the door clicked shut, I turned my gaze away from the screen. A second later, I was hunched over the trash can, vomiting my guts out. Later that night, in bed, James slid closer, his hand creeping onto my waist. “It’s been a while…” “It’s late. I’m tired. Let’s just sleep.” I shifted away, putting a deliberate distance between us. I felt his body go rigid. “My mom wants me to come over for dinner tomorrow,” I added. “So I won’t be home.” Tomorrow was Saturday, James’s day off. His routine was to go to the badminton club first thing in the morning. I used to think it was a sign of his self-discipline. Now I knew it was just an excuse to rush off to a date with his mistress. James didn’t question it. He just told me he understood and then, with nauseating hypocrisy, asked me to come home early because he would miss me. Soon, his breathing evened out into a steady rhythm. I picked up my phone and opened my chat with Serena. [Seems like you can’t satisfy him either. He was all over me just now, like a hungry wolf.] [I heard women get loose after having a baby. Is that true for you?] Then, I muted her notifications and put my phone away. The next morning, I made a show of leaving in front of James, even reminding him to pick me up from my parents’ place that evening. He agreed readily, even walking me to the door. Not twenty minutes after I left, I saw James’s car pull out of our apartment complex. Just as I’d predicted. He was going to meet Serena. Even from a distance, I could see their two bodies tangled together in the front seat. They were kissing in the car, right out in the open, for a good ten minutes. This time they didn’t go to the badminton club. They drove straight to the nearest hotel. I don’t know what Serena did, but James was practically sprinting out of the car, his every step screaming impatience. I forced myself to breathe, to quell the frantic pounding of my heart, and kept the camera rolling. I watched until they disappeared through the hotel’s revolving doors. Then, I made three phone calls. The first was to James’s parents, who cared about their reputation more than anything in the world. The second was to his direct supervisor, the man in charge of his next promotion. For the third, I took a deep, steadying breath and dialed the three numbers. “Hello, 911?” “I’d like to report solicitation at the Haven Hotel. The man’s name is…” “James. Knight.”
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