Chapter 2

I shoved my phone into my bag, pressing my hand against my lower abdomen, trying to steady myself as the turmoil inside threatened to spill over.

When we landed, the cabin door swung open, and a blast of cold air swept in from the jet bridge.

I dragged my suitcase out, the wheels rattling over the cracks in the floor. Every bump felt like a jab straight to my heart.

As soon as my phone connected to the network, a message from William popped up: [Did you land? It's freezing out there. Go straight to the hotel. I'll fly over as soon as I finish up here tomorrow.]

It came with a location pin: his office.

I tapped on the location to check it out. It was two in the morning back home, and he was still at the office?

In Grace's latest post, there was a snowy cabin outside the window, and three cups on the table.

Next to one of the cups was the black lighter William always used.

I pressed the voice button, then let go.

I wanted to ask where he was, but my hand just hovered over the screen.

I wanted to call him a jerk, but the words died in my throat.

What was the point of yelling at him? He'd just make up some excuse, apologize, and spin a story so airtight it'd put my travel guide to shame.

I walked up to the ticket counter. The staff member behind the counter looked up and asked if I needed any help.

I handed over my passport, my voice so dry it almost cracked. "The earliest flight back."

She typed on her keyboard and asked, "You just arrived, and you're already heading back?"

I nodded.

She looked at the screen. "There's a flight in six hours, with one stop."

"That's fine," I replied.

As I swiped my card, my phone buzzed again.

William sent me a pic. It was a shot of his coffee mug at the office. [Still grinding. Wait for me.]

I stared at the photo and suddenly let out a bitter laugh.

The desk around the coffee cup was too clean.

There was a scratch on the corner of his office desk, from back when I helped him move his computer during his startup days.

But in this photo, the scratch was gone.

This was an old photo.

I saved the flight confirmation, and dragged my suitcase to the farthest corner of the departure lounge.

Outside the window, the sky was a grayish blue, and snowflakes slid down the glass.

I opened my chat with William and typed out a message: [I'm at the hotel.]

After sending it, I put my phone on silent.

I thought to myself, 'Go ahead, William, keep pretending. I'm done playing along.'

It was raining in Veyra City the day I flew back.

As soon as the airport doors slid open, a damp breeze laced with the smell of gasoline hit me in the face.

I dragged my suitcase into a cab, and the driver asked where I was headed.

I told him my home address, but then changed my mind. "Actually, take me to the notary office in the Northveil District first."

The driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror. "Got some business to take care of?"

I hummed and turned to look out the window.

Rain streaked down the glass, turning the city lights into a messy blur of red, green, and yellow.

On my phone, William was still acting like nothing was wrong, sending me messages as if everything was normal.

[How's the hotel?]

[Eaten yet?]

[I'm still caught up with work here, Emily. Hang tight for a couple more days.]

I stared at his last message, my fingers tapping on the screen: [Sure, take your time.]

After sending it, I took a screenshot and saved it to the cloud drive, along with all of Grace's posts.

There was a print shop next to the notary office.

The fluorescent lights were harsh, and the printer made a loud, clattering noise as it spat out the paper.

I printed out the screenshots, flight info, Grace's profile link, and the old photo William sent me, one by one.

The shop owner glanced at the photos on the paper. Her lips twitched, but she kept quiet.

When she handed me the papers, she said, "Here, I'll give you a sturdier bag."

I took the bag and quietly thanked her.

After leaving the print shop, I headed to the bank.

For years, William was the one dealing with all our bills and money stuff.

He told me I was already exhausted from my design work, and he'd handle all the money stuff, so I wouldn't have to stress about it.

I believed him.

Every month, I'd put my studio's profits into our joint account, and let him take care of the mortgage, insurance, and investments.

When the teller handed me the bank statement, my palms were slick with sweat.

I flipped through page by page. There were regular transfers, every month on the 18th, ranging from 6,000 to 10,000 dollars, going to a children's education center.

There were also a few big payments, all marked as "consulting fees," all wired to the same personal account.

The account belonged to Grace.

I made a copy of the bank statement and slipped it into the bag.

The teller glanced at me, lowered her voice, and asked, "Need us to stamp them?"

"Yes," I replied.

She picked up the stamp, pressed it into the red ink pad, and stamped it down with a soft thud.

The sound was quiet, but to me, it felt like the first nail in the coffin of my seven-year marriage.

By four in the afternoon, I was back home.

As soon as I opened the door, the entryway light came on automatically.