Chapter 3
I waited until the shower was running full blast before I made my move. The bathroom door was ajar, steam escaping into our bedroom as Luca hummed some tune I couldn't quite place. My heart hammered against my ribs, but my hands were steady as I reached for his briefcase.
Three days had passed since Sarah's call about Heritage Tea. Three days of pretending everything was normal while I planned my next steps with the precision of a surgeon preparing for a complex operation.
The briefcase wasn't locked—why would it be? He'd never had reason to suspect me of snooping before.
"Luca?" I called toward the bathroom, my voice deliberately casual. "Did you remember to pack your blue tie?"
"Just a minute!" he shouted over the water. "I'm almost done!"
I had maybe five minutes. I unzipped the main compartment and rifled through the usual contents—his laptop, charger, a folder of contracts. Nothing unusual. I was about to close it when something caught my eye—a slight bulge in the lining that didn't match the contours of the leather.
My fingers probed the seam until I felt it—a hidden zipper. Inside was a slim manila envelope.
The shower stopped.
"Just need to get dressed!" Luca called.
I slipped the envelope out with trembling fingers and emptied its contents onto the bed. My breath caught in my throat.
Photographs. At least a dozen of them. Color, glossy, professionally printed. And every single one featured my husband with the same woman—a stunning brunette with almond-shaped eyes and a smile that seemed to mock me from the paper.
In one, they were kissing against the backdrop of a sunset. In another, he had her pressed against a hotel room wall, her legs wrapped around his waist. There were intimate dinners in restaurants I'd never seen, champagne glasses clinking, his hand resting possessively on her thigh.
I flipped through them methodically, clinical detachment warring with the pain lancing through my chest. Dates were scrawled on the backs—all recent, all times when he'd told me he was working late or traveling for business.
"Hotel L'Aubergine," I murmured, reading from a receipt tucked between the photos. "Table for two, $287."
There was a hotel keycard too—Room 712—and receipts from places like Le Bernardin and Per Se. Restaurants where reservations needed to be made months in advance. Restaurants he'd never taken me to.
"Elena?" Luca's voice was closer now. "You didn't answer me about the tie."
I quickly gathered everything, returning it to the envelope and sliding it back into the hidden compartment. "Blue tie is in the dry cleaning bag," I called back, my voice somehow steady despite the earthquake happening inside me.
When he emerged, towel wrapped around his waist, I was sitting at the vanity, brushing my hair with slow, deliberate strokes.
"Find everything you need?" I asked, watching him in the mirror.
His eyes flickered to his briefcase, then back to me. "Yeah, all set."
---
Two nights later, I waited until Luca's breathing deepened into the heavy rhythm of deep sleep. The moonlight cast silver patterns across our bedroom floor as I carefully lifted his phone from the nightstand.
I'd researched tracking apps thoroughly—which ones were undetectable, which ones could be installed remotely. This one required physical access, but it was worth the risk.
My fingers moved quickly, following the steps I'd memorized. Install the app, hide the icon, enable location tracking and message monitoring. The screen's glow illuminated my face in the darkness as I worked.
"Who's Anna?" I whispered as I set the phone back down, exactly as I'd found it.
For three days, I tracked his movements. The office. Meetings. Client lunches.
And then, on Thursday evening—when he'd told me he had a dinner with investors—his location pinged at The Wellington, an upscale apartment complex across town.
I zoomed in on the map, watching the blue dot remain stationary for over two hours.
The next morning, while he was at the gym, I turned to his laptop. He'd left it open—a rare mistake—and I found myself staring at a folder labeled simply "A."
Inside were video files. Dozens of them.
My stomach churned as I clicked on the most recent one.
The screen filled with movement, and I heard her voice—the same sultry tone I'd heard in the car.
"Oh, baby," she moaned. "Right there."
The camera angle shifted, and I realized with sickening clarity where they were—my car. The rental I'd driven while mine was in the shop last month.
"Luca," I heard myself say from somewhere far away. "What have you done?"
The timestamp showed last Tuesday—the night he'd told me he was working late on the Heritage Tea account.
As the video continued playing, I noticed something else—the distinctive logo of a hotel keycard on the dashboard. The same one from the photos.
Room 712.
The pieces were falling into place faster than I could assemble them.