Chapter 2

I couldn't sleep that night, the images from Greyson's private Instagram account burning behind my eyelids. The way he looked at Celia—protective, tender—was familiar. It reminded me of how he used to look at me in our early days together.

The next morning, I waited until Greyson left for work before turning to his laptop. He'd never kept passwords from me before, but now I wondered what else he'd been hiding.

I opened his laptop and scanned the desktop. Nothing suspicious at first glance. Then I noticed a folder labeled simply "CW."

My heart skipped. Celia Weaver.

I clicked on it, expecting it to open, but a password prompt appeared. I tried our anniversary date. Access denied. His birthday. Access denied. My birthday. Access denied.

"This is ridiculous," I muttered, my fingers trembling slightly as I typed in combinations. "What could possibly be so important to—"

I stopped mid-sentence as a thought struck me. The date on the photos. The first time Greyson had mentioned meeting Celia was three months ago at a charity gala.

I typed in the date: 03152023.

The folder opened.

My breath caught in my throat as dozens of files appeared on screen. Video files. Photo files. All organized by date.

I clicked on the earliest video. Greyson and Celia in what looked like a hospital room. She was sitting in her wheelchair, looking exhausted but smiling. Greyson knelt beside her, holding her hand.

"You're going to be okay," he was saying, his voice gentle in a way I hadn't heard in months. "I promise I'll take care of everything."

I clicked on another video. Them in a hotel room. Celia wearing one of Greyson's shirts, her pregnant belly visible beneath it. He was brushing her hair with reverent care.

"Have you ever thought about what it would be like?" she asked softly.

"To have a family?" Greyson replied, his eyes never leaving her face. "Every day."

I couldn't watch anymore. I scrolled through the photos—dozens of them. Greyson feeding her soup. Greyson adjusting her blanket. Greyson kissing her forehead.

The most recent photo was dated just two days ago.

---

Two days later, I told my assistant I was taking the afternoon off. Greyson had texted that he had a business meeting downtown.

"Actually," I said to my driver as we left our apartment, "I need to make a stop first."

I directed him to a small café across from where Greyson claimed to be meeting clients. Through the window, I could see tables with people working on laptops.

"Wait here," I told the driver. "I need to check something."

I positioned myself at a table inside the café with a clear view of the entrance. My heart pounded so loudly I was sure everyone around me could hear it.

Twenty minutes later, Greyson walked in. He was smiling—that rare, genuine smile I'd been missing lately. In his hands was a small pastry box.

I watched as he approached a corner table where Celia sat waiting. She looked radiant despite her condition, her hand resting protectively over her belly.

Greyson sat down and opened the box, revealing a small chocolate cake with a single candle. He lit it and began to sing softly.

A birthday. Today was her birthday.

I watched, frozen, as he cut a small piece and fed it to her, his fingers lingering on her lips. Then he reached out and stroked her hair, tucking a strand behind her ear with such tenderness that it made my chest ache.

It was the way he used to look at me—like I was precious, irreplaceable.

---

"He's having an affair," I told my sister that evening, my voice surprisingly steady as we sat in her penthouse overlooking Central Park. "With a disabled model named Celia Weaver."

My sister's face hardened. "That bastard. I always thought there was something off about him."

"I found videos," I continued. "Photos. He's been seeing her for months."

"Have you confronted him?" she asked.

I shook my head. "Not yet. I don't want him to know I've been investigating."

My sister reached across the table and squeezed my hand. "Marley, you don't have to handle this alone. I can hire a private investigator. We can find out exactly what's been going on."

I stared out at the park, the setting sun casting long shadows across the greenery. Our wedding was in two weeks. Two weeks.

"No," I said finally. "Not yet. I need... I need to be sure."

"Sure of what?" my sister asked gently.

I turned back to her, a cold determination settling in my chest. "I need to be sure of what I'm going to do next."