Chapter 1
I took my husband's car in for routine maintenance.
While adjusting the passenger seat, a kraft paper envelope slipped out from the crack between the cushions.
I thought it contained receipts and opened it without thinking.
Inside were two first class plane tickets.
Destination: Artonwood.
Departure: next Wednesday.
The first name belonged to my husband, Lionel Wright.
The second was for Julia Mitchell.
I stared at the second name for a long time.
Julia Mitchell was not my name.
I searched through the company directory on his phone and there was no one by that name.
I ran through every face I could remember and still got nothing.
In the end, I slid the envelope back where I'd found it.
My fingertips were cold. But my mind had never been clearer.
Four years of marriage and for the first time, I realized something.
The passenger seat of this car might never have been mine.
*****
The mechanic was still waiting outside.
I stepped out of the passenger seat, smoothed my skirt as if brushing away invisible dust, and handed over the keys.
"Just the usual maintenance, and use Mobil 1 oil," I said.
"Sure thing, Shannon. Come back at four to pick it up," he replied.
I nodded, then hopped into a taxi and headed back to the office.
The backseat leather of the cab was burning hot from the sun. As I slid in, my knees instinctively pressed together. I gripped my phone tightly, the screen still glowing. Those two plane ticket photos I'd just snapped in secret stared back at me.
Flight MH370, first class. Departing December 18th, returning December 25th.
It was for one whole week, and they'd be back in time for Christmas.
I'd been married to Lionel for four years, and he'd never spent Christmas with me.
"Holidays are such a fuss," he once said.
Back at the office, I held the afternoon product selection meeting as usual, reviewed quotes for three Brontan region routes, and confirmed a batch of charter flight seats with our local partners.
A coworker glanced at me and asked, "Are you okay? You look a bit pale."
I told them my stomach was upset from lunch.
Ten minutes before quitting time, I sent Lionel a text. [Car's ready. Pick it up yourself tonight. I'll be working late.]
He replied almost instantly: [Okay.]
Three seconds later, he added: [Don't stay out too late.]
I stared at that little dot at the end of his messages for a long time.
He never used to end his texts with a period.
Since when did his messages get so stiff and formal?
I placed my phone face down on the desk, booted up my computer, and logged into the company's GDS booking system.
I was a product manager at a travel agency. This system was basically my second home, eight hours a day.
I typed in the flight number and hit enter.
The moment the flight details popped up, I stared at a tiny line of text on the screen, my throat tightening.
It read, [Payment method: Frequent flyer points redemption.]
More than half of those points were mine.
Three years of work trips, over 90,000 miles, all saved up.
On my birthday last year, Lionel said he wanted to combine our miles so it'd be easier for us to travel together.
I didn't even hesitate. I just said yes.
After that, we never actually traveled together again.
It seemed he had used my miles to get another woman a first-class ticket.
I kept scrolling.
In the notes, there was a single line. [Honeymoon trip, ocean view suite.]
The office AC was on full blast, but I felt goosebumps rising on my back.
Honeymoon.
Our honeymoon was in Slechester, where we stayed at a cheap hotel. Lionel said we had to pinch pennies while he was building his business.
I agreed without a fuss.
Four years later, he gave the honeymoon I waited for to someone else.
*****
That night, when I got home, Lionel was sitting on the couch, browsing his tablet.
On the coffee table sat a cup of water meant for me.
He looked up at me.
"You're back? There's some soup in the fridge. I heated it up for you," he said.
I changed into my slippers and sat down next to him.
"Are you going on a business trip next week?" I asked.
His finger paused on the screen.
It was just a split second but I caught it.
"Yeah, got a client to meet in Clinport," Lionel replied.
"What day are you heading out?" I asked.
"Wednesday."
"When are you coming back?"
"Probably the weekend, depending on how things go."
I picked up the spoon and took a sip of the soup.
It was delicious.
Lionel wasn't much of a cook, so this was probably a frozen soup from the supermarket.
Moreover, it was beef stew, my favorite.
I couldn't help but think how ridiculous it all was.
While he was planning a honeymoon with someone else, he made my favorite stew.
"What's the name of your client in Clinport?" I asked.
He locked his tablet and set it down, sounding totally casual.
"It's a project over at Mr. Mitchell's side. You wouldn't know the client," Lionel said.
Mitchell?
I set my spoon down.
Could Mr. Mitchell be the same Mitchell as Julia Mitchell?