Chapter 1
The bathroom door had barely clicked shut when my husband's phone lit up, buzzing like it was about to jump off the nightstand.
A text popped up on the screen, signed: Baby love.
It was my sister—Elvira Moody.
It read: [Hey, babe. Got a little surprise for you tonight. Promise it'll top last time.]
My fingers burned just touching the screen. I picked up his phone, shaking so bad I almost dropped it.
Thirty-three hotel check-ins. Six months straight. Once a week, like Sunday service.
Every decent hotel in the city—checked off one by one.
And in every single reservation, the woman was my sister.
*****
"Vannie, you deaf or something? Towel." Marsh's voice came through the frosted glass, clipped, irritated.
I dragged in a breath, dug my nails into my palm, and forced myself to move.
Cracked the bathroom door, shoved the towel through without looking at him.
Water splashed again, steady and sharp, like a dull blade sawing at my nerves.
I sat on the edge of the bed, phone in hand.
The code to his phone? My birthday.
How ironic.
Elvira's chat thread glared at me, top of the list. [Baby love.]
The messages made my skin crawl.
[Marsh, you're way better than Larry.]
[God, I love how rough you are.]
[When's the next time? I'm dying over here.]
And then a selfie—Elvira in a skimpy nightie, standing in the guest room of my apartment. The one she stayed in whenever she "crashed at my place."
My stomach lurched. I ran to the bathroom, gagging over the toilet.
Nothing came up except acid that burned my throat.
There was more. An encrypted photo album. The password? Elvira's birthday.
Inside—photos. Him and her. Hotels. Our couch. Even my damn vanity.
I scrolled and scrolled, hands shaking so hard I could barely hold the phone.
Each shot felt like someone pressed a hot iron to my chest.
Thirty-three hotel check-ins.
That number wouldn't stop circling my head.
When did it start?
How did I miss it?
Maybe I hadn't.
Lately, he was always "working late," coming home smelling like perfume I didn't own.
When I asked, he'd shrug. "Clients. Business dinners."
And Elvira—my big sister, the one I used to tell everything—had been dodging my calls, avoiding my eyes.
So this was it.
Marsh came out of the bathroom, hair dripping, smelling like body wash.
He saw my face and asked, casual as hell, "You good? You look kinda sick."
I forced a smile that hurt worse than crying. "I'm fine. Just tired."
He grunted, didn't press, rubbed at his hair with the towel, then flopped onto the bed. A minute later, he was out cold, snoring.
I stared at the ceiling all night, wide awake.
My head kept spinning—his filthy messages, Elvira's fake little smile.
How could she do that to me? She was my sister.
Growing up, anything good I had, I handed to her first.
And Marsh—I loved that man for five years. My husband.
No. He was worse.
By dawn, I made up my mind.
I wasn't going to let this go.
I got up, quiet as a ghost. Pulled out his ID, mine, and our marriage certificate—the documents we kept locked in the bedside drawer.
Then I grabbed my phone and started snapping photos: the hotel records, the chats, the selfies. Every last detail.
When it was done, I sat on the cold floor, shaking, drained.
And finally, I cried.
Not for them. For me.
For the years I threw away. For the love and trust I thought I had. For the family I thought I could count on.
Turned out, it was all just one big joke.