Chapter 4

On Saturday morning, he said he was heading to the office to work overtime.

I was watering the plants on the balcony, watching his car drive out of the neighborhood. Then I set down the watering can, grabbed my phone, and checked the dashcam's cloud log.

The tracking dot on the screen moved along the main road; not toward the office, but straight for Parkview Residences out in the west part of town.

I set my phone down on the coffee table and grabbed a brown folder from the top shelf of the bookcase.

Inside were all the materials I'd gathered over the past week: Alex's photos, credit card bills, screenshots of the car's location history, and printouts of the chat logs.

I sat down on the carpet and laid everything out in chronological order.

Then I called David Miller.

David was a fellow lawyer, but he specialized in family law: divorce, custody, all that. He'd been at it for fifteen years, handled over eight hundred divorce cases.

We met at a bar association seminar and ended up becoming friends.

"David, I'm getting a divorce," I said.

"Wait, what did you say?" David blurted out, totally shocked. "You and Michael? I thought you guys were solid—"

"He's cheating on me."

There was a four-second silence on the other end.

"Do you have any evidence?" David asked, his tone flipping from shock to pure business.

"Photos, transfer records, car location history, chat logs. I'm still collecting more."

"Who is she?"

"She works for him. Twenty-five, hit her one-year mark at the company."

Another two seconds of silence.

"What do you want out of this?"

"I want the biggest cut of everything we own. Maximum damages for emotional distress. And if I can ruin his reputation in the business, that's a bonus."

David didn't answer right away.

After a few seconds, he said, "Emily, with your expertise, you know that in infidelity cases, the court's not going to give you much of an edge when it comes to splitting assets.

"And for emotional distress, the judge usually only hands out a few tens of thousands of dollars."

"I know."

"So when you say 'social death,' what exactly do you mean?"

"I'm still working on it."

"Don't do anything reckless."

"I haven't acted on impulse in eleven years."

David was quiet for a few more seconds.

"Come by my office on Monday and bring all the materials. I'll take a look and then we'll figure out a plan," he said.

"Okay," I replied.

After hanging up, I locked the folder in the safe at the bottom of my closet. Only I knew the code.

At 3 p.m., he messaged me: [Midway through working late, stepped out for a bowl of noodles. Miss you.]

He attached a pic of beef noodles.

I zoomed in. There was a hand by the bowl: slender, pale, nails painted a soft pink.

That wasn't his hand.

He didn't realize he'd snapped the other person's hand in the shot.

I saved the photo.

I texted back: [Miss you too. Don't stay out too late.]

At 4:30, I did something else.

I checked out his company's website and found Sophie Lane on the "Team" page. In the photo, she was dressed in business attire, shoulder-length hair, not exactly a head-turner, but she had this refreshingly genuine look.

Her bio said she was a Product Manager, graduated from a top university with a master's in Computer Science, won a national scholarship, and specialized in user experience design and data analysis.

She definitely seemed sharp.

But even a smart girl should know better than to mess with someone else's husband.

I took a screenshot and saved it to my folder.

At 8 p.m., he came home.

"Man, what a day," he said, hanging his coat in the entryway. "I'm gonna go take a shower."

"Okay. I warmed up some soup for you," I replied softly.

He headed into the bathroom.

I stood in the living room, listening to the sound of the water running.

He never locked the bathroom door when he showered. That habit hadn't changed in six years. But last week, I noticed he started taking his phone with him into the bathroom.

Before, he'd leave his phone lying around on the coffee table or dining table, face up.

Now, he'd slip it into his robe pocket or leave it on the sink, face down.

Only the person sleeping next to you would notice these tiny shifts.

When he came out, his hair was still damp. He sat down at the dining table and started eating the soup.

"This soup's really good," he said.

"Mm," I replied.

"Emily," he said, putting his spoon down and looking at me.

"What's wrong?"

"Have you been feeling a bit down lately?"

I looked up. "No, what makes you say that?"

"You've been pretty quiet these days."

"It's probably the case. I'm a little tired."

He reached out and took my hand. "You've been working hard."

His palm was warm.

I remembered how, during our first year together, he'd always find a reason to hold my hand, saying, "Your hands are always cold. Let me warm them up for you."

Was he really good for me back then?

Or has he always been this good at pretending, and I never even noticed?

"Get some rest," I said, pulling my hand away and taking the bowl to the kitchen.

He said something behind me, but I didn't catch it. I didn't even bother to try.

I didn't want to know anyway.