It was my husband. Edmund Mason. The one who was supposed to be out driving a cab right now.
...
The comments were going wild.
"Oh my God, do men like this actually exist? Gorgeous, loaded, AND obsessed with his wife? No way this isn't photoshopped!"
To prove it was real, the girl secretly started a livestream.
On screen, a tall man in an apron moved around a gleaming kitchen, his back to the camera. He must have sensed someone watching, because he turned and smiled, soft and warm.
Edmund's face filled the screen.
The girl's voice came through in a giddy whisper.
"See? My husband spoils me rotten. This penthouse is worth tens of millions. He gave it to me as a birthday present."
"Okay, gotta go! Hubby's making me a late-night snack!"
The livestream cut off abruptly. Viewers flooded the chat with envy.
I was the only one whose heart was turning to ice, inch by inch.
I picked up my phone. Put it down. Picked it up again. Finally, I couldn't stop myself and dialed the number I knew by heart.
The line rang for a long time before he answered. When he did, Edmund's voice carried that familiar, carefully manufactured exhaustion.
"Louisa Sullivan. What's up?"
"Nothing. Just wondering what you're doing."