Chapter 1

After ten years of marriage, my husband Charles Jenning's mistress sent me a photo taken in bed.

Her naked body was pressed against his, and she was smiling straight at the camera like she had already won.

The message read: [Susan, Charles says he loves you most when you're in uniform. But I found out he doesn't actually like it at all.]

I stared at my phone for a moment and then replied with a single word: [Fine.]

Thirty minutes later, I had traced her hometown, her parents' names, and the contact information of both her and her parents' employers.

I was a surgeon.

Finding the weak spot and cutting cleanly had always been my specialty.

*****

It was 3 a.m. in the hospital on-call room. The glow of my phone lit up my pale face.

The photo was painfully clear. Every detail left no room for doubt.

The woman's young body clung to my husband, Charles Jenning, like a lush, vibrant vine, wrapped around him as if she owned him.

Charles was asleep.

He looked completely at ease, a side of him I'd never seen. In ten years of marriage, he was always tense around me.

He used to blame it on work or the pressure of supporting a family.

Now I knew the truth. All that pressure disappeared the moment he was in another woman's bed.

The woman's taunting message came right after: [Susan, Charles says he loves you most when you're in uniform. But I found out he doesn't actually like it at all.]

I stared at the last few words for a long time.

I was a cardiac surgeon. Most days, I lived in a white coat or green scrubs.

He used to say he loved seeing me in uniform, focused on my work, like I had a light of my own.

It turned out that what he really wanted was someone with nothing on at all.

How ironic.

I saved the photo and replied with a single word: [Fine.]

There was a knock at the door, and a nurse poked her head in. "Dr. Nolan, the patient in Room 3 is showing arrhythmia."

I stood at once and placed my phone face down on the desk.

"Get the defibrillator ready. I'll be right there," I said.

By the time I stepped out of the ER, dawn was just breaking.

I had just pulled a man back from the edge of death. As I watched his heart rhythm steady on the monitor, I felt nothing.

I could fix other people's hearts, but I couldn't save my own marriage.

I picked up my phone again. The screen was still lit.

The woman had sent another message: [Susan, why so quiet? Are you upset? Don't blame Charles. He's just worn out. He told me that with you, he feels like a machine that never gets to stop.]

I laughed.

The sound stayed trapped in my chest and never made it out.

Ten years ago, Charles was broke.

I was the one who put up the apartment my parents gave me as collateral so he could get his first loan and start his company.

I was the one who used my surgeon's paycheck to patch every hole when his company was about to collapse.

I was the one who turned him from a man scraping by into the "Mr. Jennings" everyone now bowed to.

Now he said he was tired.

And he had found rest in another woman's arms.

I tapped on Charles's profile picture. We had our last conversation yesterday afternoon.

I'd messaged him: [I'm on night shift tonight. There are leftovers in the fridge. Make sure you eat.]

He replied: [Take care, honey. You work too hard.]

He was probably with that woman right then.

For some reason, my mind drifted back to the beginning. We were so broke we could barely get by.

We didn't even have a camera back then. But he would lift his hands, shape an invisible frame, and say seriously, "Susan, don't move. I'm taking your picture."

I'd smile and ask, "So, what did you get?"

He'd grin and say, "My whole world."

Back then, even pretending to take a photo of me felt precious to him.

Now, he could let another woman photograph him at his most intimate moment and send it straight to me, like she was flaunting a trophy.

I closed the chat window and opened my go-to medical database. I entered the number she'd used to text me.

Being a doctor gave me access that most people never got.

Ten minutes later, a detailed personal profile appeared on my screen.

Her name was Mia Linford. She was twenty-three years old and currently an intern at a media company.

And she came from Stonecreek Town in Oakridge County, Trenton City, Greenville.

When I saw the words Stonecreek Town, a faint, cold smile curved at my lips.

I kept digging.

Her father, John Linford, was the shift supervisor at RedStar Cement Company in Oakridge County.

Her mother, Clara Linford, worked as a manager at the local community center in Oakridge County.

I even got access to John's WhatsApp work group chat, his manager's contact, and Clara's dance crew group chat.

By the time I finished, the exhaustion from surgery and the emptiness of a sleepless night were gone. In their place was a strange sense of excitement.

It felt just like a meticulous operation; all the prep was done.

Next came the incision, then separation, and finally, the decisive cut.