Chapter Three
It takes me three tries to get the passcode to the house right.
For some reason this stupid door refuses to accept my fingerprint, and apparently keys are “outdated,” according to the designer.
I grumble under my breath as I punch the numbers in again.
I’m not even drunk. It’s just one of those days where my brain and body can’t seem to stay in sync.
When the lock finally beeps open, relief floods through me.
“Thank fuck,” I mutter, stepping inside.
Our house in LA is honestly… nice.
Like, offensively nice.
People romanticize the beach, but they’ve clearly never woken up to sand in their kitchen sink or spent forty minutes trying to vacuum it out of carpet.
No, I love the hills.
It’s quieter up here.
No constant traffic. No tourists wandering around with selfie sticks. No nosy neighbors pretending not to stare through their windows.
And definitely no sand.
Dropping my purse onto the couch, I stumble toward the kitchen, suddenly desperate for water.
The fridge light blinds me for a second as I yank it open.
I chug half a bottle before I can even breathe properly, cold water spilling down my throat so fast it hurts. Then I grab another and head upstairs toward the bathroom.
One of the first things we renovated when we bought this house was the master bathroom.
Not the kitchen.
Not the living room.
The bathroom.
I love a huge closet, don’t get me wrong, but I’d choose an oversized bathtub over a second shoe rack any day.
Especially on days like this.
Except instead of sinking into the tub like I normally would, I turn the shower as cold as it’ll go. The freezing water shocks the air out of my lungs instantly, washing away the lingering smell of Claire’s paint studio and the panic sweat dried against my skin.
I stand there until my thoughts finally slow from a frantic blur into something I can almost organize.
By the time I step out, my skin is freezing and my head aches.
I pull on a soft cotton nightdress afterward, the loose white kind that barely brushes my knees. It’s comfortable and simple and completely opposite from the expensive little silk things Brad likes buying me.
Honestly, it’s barely five in the afternoon, but I’m already done with the day. Emotionally. Mentally. Spiritually.
Climbing into bed with damp hair, I open my laptop and stare blankly at the search bar.
The first thing my fingers type is:
divorce lawyers los angeles
But I freeze before pressing enter.
The words look insane sitting there on the screen. Dramatic. Final. Like something another woman would search, not me.
Quickly, I delete it.
Then I type something else instead.
how to find out if your husband is sleeping with someone else
The second I hit enter, shame curls in my stomach.
This is stupid. I know it is. But I don’t exactly have a lot of options right now. If I tell my parents, they’ll cut their trip short just to fly here and kill Brad themselves.
My sister Simone is pregnant and already dealing with some kind of drama involving her best friend that she refuses to fully explain. She’s stressed enough without this.
And my friend group barely replies to messages lately.
So yeah.
Google it is.
The first result is some AI-generated answer, so I skip right past it and open a relationship article instead. A smiling stock-photo couple beams up at me from the top of the page, looking annoyingly AI too.
It immediately irritates me.
Signs Your Husband May Be Cheating.
Jesus Christ.
The first sign says change in habits.
Well, Brad has definitely been more attentive lately. More gifts too. My mind drifts toward the purse I abandoned in the living room with the bracelet and my phone still inside.
“Fuck,” I mutter out loud.
For a second I consider going to get it, then decide against it.
The second sign says changes in intimacy.
I grimace slightly at the screen. We’ve been together for years. Obviously, things aren’t as intense as they were in our twenties, but there hasn’t really been a huge shift lately. Not less. Not more. Just… the same.
And before my brain can stop itself, another thought creeps in.
Maybe that’s why he went looking somewhere else.
I shove it away immediately.
Just because they only make lingerie for women doesn’t mean it’s only our responsibility to constantly seduce grown men. And honestly? Walking naked from the shower to the bed and asking “Do you wanna?” doesn’t exactly turn me on.
I rub my face hard with both hands.
“This is stupid,” I groan.
According to this article, my husband apparently isn’t cheating on me, but my housekeeper definitely is.
Distracted? Check.
Always tired? Check.
Always on the phone… Wait.
I sit up straighter, an idea suddenly slamming into me.
Brad works in private practice, and around two years ago one of his colleagues got sued. Apparently, the guy’s private phone records got subpoenaed during the case and it made Brad completely paranoid afterward.
He asked me to open a phone plan under my name instead.
Which means the billing emails come to me.
My stomach twists.
Opening the browser again, I pull up my email and search our carrier.
The bill appears instantly.
Biting my lip, I wait while the PDF downloads.
Is this a massive invasion of privacy?
Absolutely.
But he was at our surrogate’s apartment and lied to me about it, so truly? I feel pretty justified right now.
The second the file opens, I practically launch myself out of bed and sprint to the living room for my purse.
My phone tumbles out when I dump the bag onto the floor.
Hands shaking, I pull up Laila’s contact.
Then I search her number on the bill.
The result loads.
912 results.
My mouth falls open. “No way.”
I check the dates again.
Last month. Just last month.
I stare harder at the screen, scrolling through page after page of calls.
Laila calls him at least ten times a day.
Most are during work hours. During the same hours his nurses decline my calls because he’s “too busy” or “with patients.”
But according to the duration logs?
He answers hers. Some of the calls last over ten minutes. And there are nighttime calls too.
While he was home with me. I feel sick all over again.
“What the fuck,” I whisper.
I scroll further. No text records.
“Doesn’t mean anything,” I mutter bitterly to myself immediately. “iMessage and WhatsApp don’t show up on bills.”
My pulse is hammering now.
Brad can explain away phone calls. Easily. Just the way he explained away her pushing me out of my own unborn child’s life.
Hell, he somehow managed to make me feel guilty for even being upset about it.
“She’s pregnant, Wyn.”
“She’s emotional.”
“You’re taking this too personally.”
I stare at the screen again, at the endless rows of calls between them.
No.
I need solid proof. Something he can’t talk his way out of.
I need the messages.
I need his phone.
Thankfully, the opportunity comes sooner than I could’ve hoped.
Standing beside our bed later that night, I stare down at Brad’s sleeping face in the dark.
He didn’t always sleep this quietly.
No, this man used to snore like a freaking chainsaw until he got surgery for it.
For me.
The thought punches guilt straight through my chest.
Am I really about to cross a line that can’t be uncrossed because of paranoia?
Maybe that’s all this is. Maybe tomorrow I’ll wake up and realize I nearly destroyed my marriage over fear and insecurity.
But once the seeds been sown, I can’t exactly pray it away. I’ll always wonder. Even if I ask him directly, I’m scared I wouldn’t believe him anyway.
That’s why I pretended to be asleep when he came home tonight.
I didn’t even move when he went straight to the shower.
Which was clue number six. Or seven. Maybe twelve at this point.
Then again, cheating husband or exhausted surgeon? I guess that depends entirely on the eyes of the beholder.
If I’d talked to him, I would’ve broken immediately and asked about Laila. And then whatever happened next would’ve been completely out of my control.
This way, at least for a few more minutes, I still get to decide whether my life falls apart.
It’s kind of like a paternity test.
No matter how much someone trusts their partner, once the thought enters your head, it doesn’t just disappear because you want it to.
Not that I’m saying men demanding paternity tests because their mom thinks the baby “doesn’t look like them” are justified. But still… sometimes it isn’t cheating. The number of babies accidentally switched at birth is honestly horrifying if you ever look it up.
I should really stop stalling.
Carefully, with painfully steady hands, I reach for Brad’s phone on the nightstand and unplug it from the charger.
The soft chime sounds deafening in the silence.
I practically shove the phone against my stomach in panic, freezing completely.
Brad shifts suddenly, his brow tightening like he’s fighting his way toward consciousness.
Every muscle in my body locks.
For one horrible second, I’m sure he’s going to open his eyes and catch me standing there clutching his phone like some desperate thief.
But then he just exhales heavily, turning onto his side before settling back into the mattress.
Still asleep.
Relief crashes through me so hard my knees almost buckle.
Clutching the phone tightly, I tiptoe out of the bedroom.
Time to find out the truth.