Chapter 4

That night, I didn't ask Michael to massage me. I told him I had a headache and was turning in early.

He replied, "Alright, goodnight. I'll head to the study and take care of some work."

He went to the study.

After waiting ten minutes, I crept quietly out of bed and made my way to the study door.

The door was left slightly ajar, and I could hear his low voice inside, talking on the phone.

"How was your day? Was the studio busy? Yeah, she came. She's already asleep. Oliver's doing well. He got a star sticker today.

"How's your daughter? Is her cold any better? I'll have my mom pick her up tomorrow. Don't worry. Just get some rest."

Michael's voice was soft and tender, even more so than when he talked to me.

That wasn't the kind of gentle tone a "perfect husband" would use. It was a kind of tenderness that came from deep inside, cautious, almost as if he was trying to please that woman and feeling sorry for her.

I had never heard him speak to me like that.

When he talked to me, he was always polite, proper, and just right, like a perfectly written official document: flawless, but completely devoid of warmth.

And I actually mistook that "perfection" for love.

I stood there for a long while, and then quietly crawled back into bed, lying awake and staring up at the ceiling.

The space beside me was empty. Michael was still in the study, speaking softly to that woman.

His wife was lying here, but his heart was with another woman.

And that woman enjoyed all his true feelings, all his money, and all his warmth.

All I got was the shell of a "perfect husband", and a pile of freebies.

*****

The next morning, everything went on like any other day.

Michael got up at 6:30 and made breakfast—fried eggs, milk, and toasted bread. At 7:00, he woke me up, and at 7:20, he woke Oliver.

We all sat down together for breakfast. He spread jam on Oliver's toast and poured me a glass of milk.

"It's Friday. What do you want for dinner? I'll come home early and cook," he asked.

"Whatever," I said.

"How about some seafood? You mentioned you wanted some before."

"Sure."

Michael didn't notice anything out of the ordinary. Or rather, he would never notice. In his mind, Erica Carter didn't need to have any strange feelings.

All I had to do was be a good Mrs. Quinn, look after Oliver, and keep up appearances online. That was enough.

My feelings, my emotions, and my doubts never crossed his mind.

Because to Michael, I was just a tool. Tools didn't need feelings.

I drank my milk without showing any emotion, and deep down, I made up my mind.

I was going to uncover every single truth.

*****

For the next month, I basically became a detective.

While Michael was in the shower, I rummaged through his briefcase. There was a Gucci receipt dated March 10th. The amount was 8,000 dollars.

That was the day he left for a business trip. And what did he bring back for me? Just a canvas bag and a tiny lipstick sample.

I checked the transaction history for that card. It was our joint account.

I reached out to a college friend who worked at a bank and then got the account details and the past two years' transaction records.

The account was opened four years ago, in the second year after we got married. I had never used it, so I practically forgot about it.

But the phone number linked to it was a number that was completely unfamiliar to me.

The transaction history was long, and I went through it line by line.

Every month, after Michael's salary and bonus came in, he'd transfer out several sums either that day or the next. There was always a regular one.

On the 15th of every month, he sent 5,000 dollars to an account under the name Vanessa Lane. The note said "living expenses".

Sometimes there were bigger, one-off transfers. Last August, Michael sent 240,000 dollars to the same account. The note said "house payment".

240,000 dollars. That was the full price of an apartment.

He bought Vanessa an apartment.

As I kept scrolling, I saw endless small purchases—flowers, cakes, kids' clothes, Legos, theme park tickets, dinner at five-star hotels... Every single item was bought twice: one for Vanessa's daughter, and one for...

Suddenly, I remembered that Michael had gotten Oliver the same things, but the price was clearly nowhere near the same league.

Oliver's Legos were knockoff versions, while Vanessa's daughter got the official sets straight from the flagship store.

Oliver's clothes were discounted, but Vanessa's daughter wore designer clothes.

Oliver's birthday cake was small and cheap, while Vanessa's daughter had an expensive and fancy one.

I printed out the transaction records—a fat pile of pages—and went through them with a red marker, circling every expense tied to Vanessa.

By the time I was done, every sheet was crammed with red marks.

Then I checked Michael's business trip records. Every single trip was to the same city, Nalita, where Vanessa lived. After her divorce, she moved back to Nalita with her daughter and opened a flower shop.

And Michael made at least two "business trips" to Nalita every month, staying for two or three days each time.

The "gifts" he brought back were just promotional samples from the local stores in Nalita.

The real and good items? He'd already given them to Vanessa in Nalita.