Chapter 1
The year Michael Stone and I got married, he proposed to me on one knee in the snow, swearing he'd love only me for the rest of his life.
Six years later, at 1 a.m., his phone buzzed three times. A message lit up the lock screen: [Honey, I miss you. Can we meet tomorrow?]
The sender's name was a heart emoji, then [Soph].
I stared at those three lines for seven seconds.
My mind went completely blank, like a frozen lake in winter. There's nothing, only pure emptiness.
He was lying next to me, breathing evenly, his right hand resting on my waist, like every other night.
I quietly picked up his phone.
Fingerprint unlock? No luck. But I knew his passcode. It's my birthday.
Unlocked.
The WhatsApp chat list looked normal: company groups, project groups, classmates. But the chat with the heart emoji was seventh, tucked behind a few work groups. It wasn't obvious, but I caught it right away.
I tapped it open.
The conversation dated back four months.
The earliest messages were pretty mundane.
Sophie: [Mr. Stone, I sent the proposal we talked about to your email.]
Micheal: [Received, thanks for your hard work.]
He called her Soph, she called him Mr. Stone.
By the third week, the tone of their messages started to shift. Things were getting a little more personal.
She sent a photo of herself working late, her face half-buried in her arms on the desk. The caption read: [Another late night at work. So tired.]
He replied: [Take care of yourself, don't push too hard.] Followed by a patting-head emoji.
By the fifth week, she started calling him Mike. He called her Soph. Her name was Sophie Lane.
By the sixth week, they had their first dinner alone. She sent, [I want to treat you to dinner, Mike, to thank you for looking out for me lately.]
He replied, [Sure, you pick the place.]
By the eighth week, the first boundary was crossed.
She said, [Mike, sometimes I think your wife is really lucky.]
He shot back with five words: [She doesn't know how to cherish it.]
My finger froze on the screen.
Those five words cut deeper than any sweet talk ever could.
I kept scrolling.
By the tenth week, he booked a hotel. [The usual spot, 8 p.m.]
She replied with a kiss emoji.
By the twelfth week, which was last week.
She said, "Honey, when are you going on your business trip? I want to come over to your place."
He replied, [I'm flying to Shenzhen next Wednesday, for two days.]
She sent a bouncing rabbit GIF.
I scrolled to the very bottom.
Today, at 12:47 a.m.
Sophie: [Honey, I miss you. Can we meet tomorrow?]
He didn't reply. He was already asleep.
I put the phone back where it was, screen down.
He rolled over, his arm draped over me again, mumbling something in his sleep; almost like he said "Emily."
Emily. That's my name. Emily Grant.
Was he really calling out to me in his sleep, or was it a habit?
I didn't move.
I closed my eyes, listening to him breathe, slow and steady.
It has been six years. I really thought he was my rock, the one I could always count on. He never stayed out late schmoozing with clients, didn't smoke, barely touched alcohol. Every weekend, he'd go grocery shopping with me, carrying the bags.
When my mom was in the hospital, he took a whole week off to stay by her side. All my friends would joke, "Girl, did you save the universe in your last life? How did you land a husband this good?"
A good husband, huh.
I opened my eyes in the darkness.
Under the pillow, the green light on myher phone's record button was still glowing.
This wasn't some impulsive move or a test. From the very first second I saw that message, I knew I needed proof.
He thought he'd hidden everything perfectly.
But he forgot one thing.
I've been a criminal lawyer for eleven years.