I’m stuck at work. Happy 2nd anniversary, babe. I’ll make it up to you this weekend.
At 7:15, I was seated two tables away from him in a packed Chicago restaurant, watching him kiss another woman as if I had never existed.
For a few seconds, I was completely frozen. My hand still clutched the small gift bag I had brought—a vintage silver watch he had once admired in a store window. I had spent an hour getting ready. I had even driven downtown to surprise him because something about his message felt distant, rehearsed. Now I understood why.
He wore the navy shirt I gave him last Christmas. She laughed, one hand resting on his jaw, leaning in like this wasn’t their first time. There was no hesitation between them. No tension. Just ease. Familiarity. Routine.
I shoved my chair back so abruptly it scraped loudly across the floor.
Before I could take two steps, a man moved beside me.
“Don’t,” he said quietly.
I turned sharply, anger rising. “Excuse me?”
He kept his tone steady. “Stay calm. The real show’s about to start.”
He looked to be around forty, tall, sharply dressed, with the kind of face that carried long-held tension. He nodded toward the woman sitting with my husband.
“My name is Daniel Mercer,” he said. “The woman with your husband is my wife.”
The room seemed to tilt under my feet.
“What?”
“She told me she was in Boston tonight,” he continued. “I’ve been tracking this for six weeks. I hired a private investigator after I found hotel receipts on our joint card.” His gaze shifted toward my husband. “Your husband’s name is Andrew Bennett, right?”
I stared at him. “How do you know that?”
“Because I know more than I ever wanted to.” He pulled out his phone and showed me a photo—Andrew and the woman getting into his car outside a condo building. A timestamp from three weeks ago glowed at the bottom. Then another photo. And another.
My stomach twisted so tightly I thought I might be sick.
