Chapter 2

My hands trembled as I stared at the photos in my lap. Marcus, my husband, with another woman. Another family. The cafe noise faded to a distant hum as my world collapsed around me.

"This can't be real," I whispered, though the evidence was undeniable. The little girl had his eyes, his smile.

"I'm sorry, Helena." Ryan's voice sounded distant, like he was speaking through water. "I wouldn't have come if I wasn't certain."

I looked up at him, this man I'd once feared, now the bearer of an even greater terror. "How did you find this?"

"Does it matter?" His blue eyes held something I'd never seen in them before—genuine concern. "What matters is that he's been lying to you for years."

I shoved the photos back into the envelope, suddenly desperate to be anywhere but here, with Ryan watching my breakdown. "I need to go."

"Helena—"

"Don't follow me," I snapped, clutching the envelope to my chest as I hurried away.

The drive home passed in a blur. My mind raced with memories, searching for signs I'd missed. The frequent trips to Seattle for 'conferences.' The mysterious phone calls he'd take in another room. The way he never wanted me to surprise him at work.

Our house—our perfect, immaculate house—felt like a stage set as I burst through the door. I ran straight to Marcus's study, to the antique desk he always kept locked. The key was hidden in the false bottom of his pen holder, a hiding place I'd discovered years ago but had respected out of trust.

Trust. The word tasted bitter now.

The drawer slid open smoothly. Inside lay folders, neatly labeled and organized. I pulled them out, spreading contents across the desk. Bank statements showing regular transfers to an account in Seattle under the name Amanda Chen. School records for Emma Sterling, age six. Property tax statements for a house in Queen Anne.

And there, tucked in the back, a marriage certificate. Marcus Sterling and Amanda Chen, dated three years before ours.

A sound escaped me—half laugh, half sob. I wasn't even his wife. I was the other woman. The mistress. The fool.

My phone buzzed with a text from Marcus: *Running late. Surgery complications. Don't wait up.*

Another lie.

Without thinking, I found myself on my laptop, booking the last seat on a red-eye flight to Seattle. I packed nothing, just grabbed my purse, the envelope of evidence, and my passport. Whatever happened next, I couldn't spend another night in this house of lies.

At the airport, I sat rigid in the terminal, my mind cycling through seven years of memories, recategorizing each one as suspect. Every anniversary gift, every whispered "I love you," every promise—all tainted now.

The plane lifted into the night sky, and I pressed my forehead against the cold window, watching Vancouver's lights recede. Somewhere down there was a life I thought was mine. A husband I thought loved me. A truth I never knew.

"Can I get you anything?" The flight attendant's voice startled me.

"No," I said, then reconsidered. "Actually, vodka. Neat."

I rarely drank, but tonight seemed an appropriate exception.

The alcohol burned down my throat, doing nothing to dull the sharper pain in my chest. I pulled out my phone, opened the maps app, and entered the address I'd found in Marcus's desk. Tomorrow, I would see for myself.

I landed in Seattle just as dawn broke, the city still quiet as I picked up a rental car. I drove directly to the address in Queen Anne, a charming Craftsman with a view of the Space Needle. I parked across the street, low in my seat, and waited.

Hours passed. I watched the neighborhood wake up—joggers with dogs, parents with strollers, normal people living normal lives. Not people whose entire existence had been revealed as a carefully constructed lie.

At dusk, a silver Mercedes—identical to the one in our Vancouver garage—pulled into the driveway. Marcus stepped out, looking exactly as he had when he left our house two days ago. The front door opened, and a beautiful woman emerged, her face lighting up at the sight of him.

But it was the little girl who broke me—small and delicate, racing down the steps with her arms outstretched. "Daddy!"

Marcus caught her, swinging her high onto his shoulders as she squealed with delight. He kissed Amanda tenderly, his free arm wrapping around her waist. They looked perfect together. A perfect family.

I raised the binoculars I'd purchased at the airport, needing to see their faces clearly, to burn this moment into my memory. Through the lenses, I could see Marcus's smile—wider and more genuine than any he'd given me in years.

A sob caught in my throat as the truth sank in completely. I wasn't just the other woman. I was the lesser love.