Chapter 2

I spent the entire next day in the guest bedroom, the door locked behind me. My laptop balanced on my knees as I conducted what felt like doctoral research into the art of deception.

"Identity creation," I murmured to myself, scrolling through articles about digital privacy and anonymous communication. "The art of becoming someone else."

First came the logistics. A new email address with no connection to my name or Julian's. I chose ProtonMail for its encryption and reputation for privacy.

"Too generic," I muttered, deleting my first attempt at a username. "Julian would see through that immediately."

I needed something that sounded like a real person but wasn't traceable to me. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, then typed: "[email protected]"

Close enough to my initials to remember, but far enough from my actual identity to provide deniability. I set up two-factor authentication using a burner app on an old tablet Julian had discarded months ago.

Next, a physical mailing address. I couldn't use our home address, obviously. I drove to the post office and rented a PO Box under the name "S. Artiste," paying for six months in cash.

"Are you an artist?" the postal worker asked, eyeing my choice of name.

I smiled, feeling the mask of my new persona slide into place. "Something like that."

Back home, I locked myself in the guest room again. Julian was at work—a "meeting with investors" that I now questioned the legitimacy of.

I opened a notebook and began sketching my creation.

"Sable," I wrote at the top of the page. "28 years old. Artist. New to the city."

I paused, considering. What would Julian find irresistible? What would make him feel both powerful and desired?

"Independent," I added. "Not impressed by money, but appreciates grand gestures."

I thought of the women on his phone—the ones who had responded to his generic compliments and obvious lines. They had been eager, flattering, desperate even.

Sable would be different. Sable would be cool. Distant. Challenging.

I jotted down more details: "Passionate about classic literature. Knows about vintage sports cars."

Julian had once mentioned that his father collected vintage Porsches. The detail had stuck with me because Julian had looked wistful when he spoke of them—one of the few genuine emotions he'd shown in recent years.

"Where did she study?" I wondered aloud, then smiled. "Self-taught. Rebellious."

I pulled up Spark on my laptop, using Julian's login information that I'd memorized during my midnight investigation of his phone.

"Creating a new account," I whispered to myself, my heart racing with both fear and exhilaration.

I uploaded photos with careful consideration. I used pictures from my solo trip to Italy—before Julian, before I'd reshaped myself into the perfect corporate wife. I cropped them meticulously: a close-up of my lips against a coffee cup in a Florence café; a silhouette of my back in a silk dress against a Tuscan sunset; my hand holding a paintbrush in front of an easel.

In none of them could I be clearly identified, but they suggested beauty, mystery, creativity.

For my bio, I combined truths about myself with Julian's fantasies:

"Sable: 28. Artist. Recent transplant to the city, exploring its shadows and light. I paint what others won't look at twice. Love classic literature and the smell of old books. Appreciate beauty in unexpected places—like the line of a vintage Porsche or the curve of a stranger's smile. Not looking for a savior or a bank account. Just someone who can keep up."

I read it over twice, making sure it sounded nothing like Eleanor Vance. Satisfied, I hit submit.

For two days, I checked the app obsessively, waiting for matches. Julian was busy with work—or so he claimed—giving me ample opportunity to monitor Sable's profile.

On the third day, it happened.

The notification appeared on my screen: "You've got a new match!"

My heart hammered against my ribs as I clicked on the notification. Julian's profile appeared in my match list:

"JulianV: 38. CEO. Single. Exploring the city and all its possibilities."

I stared at his photo—the same one he used for his professional LinkedIn profile. He was smiling that practiced smile, the one that had once made my heart flutter but now made my stomach turn.

"You're slime," I whispered to his image. "But you're predictable slime."

A message notification appeared almost immediately:

"An artist? I'm intrigued. You must have a beautiful soul to match that beautiful silhouette."

I read it twice, nausea rising in my throat. The line was rehearsed, generic—the same kind of thing he'd been sending to other women.

I closed the app and set my phone down, walking to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face.

"Think," I told my reflection. "Think like Sable. Not Eleanor."

Eleanor would be hurt. Eleanor would confront him. Eleanor would cry.

But Sable? Sable would play the game.

I returned to my phone, my fingers hovering over the keyboard before I began typing:

"And you must be more than just your job title. Intrigue me back."

I hit send before I could second-guess myself.

His response came within minutes:

"Challenge accepted. What intrigues Sable? Besides vintage Porsches?"

I smiled coldly at his screen name appearing on my phone.

"The unexpected," I typed back. "Most men are so... predictable."

Another message appeared immediately:

"And what makes you think I'm not predictable?"

I could almost see him leaning forward in his chair, his fingers flying across his keyboard, eager to impress this mysterious woman who was neither fawning nor dismissive.

"Because a predictable man wouldn't message a woman who clearly doesn't need him," I replied.

Silence stretched for nearly a minute—the longest pause since our conversation began.

"Touché," he finally wrote. "I'm beginning to see why your art must be extraordinary. You see beneath surfaces."

I felt a chill run through me at his words—so close to things he'd once said to me, in our early days.

"Perhaps," I wrote back, my fingers steady despite my racing heart. "But I don't give away my secrets easily. Do you?"

The three dots indicating he was typing appeared and disappeared twice before his response came through:

"Neither do I. But for you, Sable, I might make an exception."

I sat back in my chair, a strange mixture of triumph and disgust washing over me.

Julian was hooked—on a woman who didn't exist, created by the wife he'd betrayed.

I glanced at our wedding photo on the dresser across the room, my expression hardening as I turned back to the phone.

"Prove it," I typed, setting the trap for my husband's digital soul.