She set the glass down hard enough to slosh water onto the counter, pulled out her phone, and searched for a recent photo of Julian Hawthorne. “This man?” she asked, turning the screen.
Ethan nodded.
“I’ve never met him. I swear, Ethan, I have no idea why he would have my picture.”
He wanted—needed—to believe her. Six years of marriage, and she’d never given him a single reason to doubt. But the photograph existed. And now the questions wouldn’t stop.
Over the next ten days Ethan became someone he didn’t recognize. He noticed things he’d never questioned before: the occasional designer scarf she said was “from a grateful client,” the extra shifts that left her unreachable, the way she angled her phone away when notifications lit the screen. He hated himself for it, but one night when she was in the shower he scrolled through her messages. Nothing. Just coworkers, group chats, a reminder from the dentist.