"Ding. Bluetooth connected."
The words rang through the still air of the laundry room like a death knell. Sarah froze mid-fold, one of David's freshly pressed white shirts crumpling in her hands. The chime came from her phone, which was lying face-down on the counter beside the laundry basket. Her heart stuttered.
That sound usually meant one thing—her phone had paired with her husband's car.
But David wasn't home. He wasn't supposed to be anywhere near home. Just fifteen minutes ago, he'd texted her: "Long day ahead. I'll be home late. Don't wait up, babe."
She reached for the phone, her fingers trembling just slightly. Then came the voice.
"Mmm, baby, I'm counting down the hours till I can feel you again…"
Female voice. Smooth. Teasing.
Sarah blinked. Her entire body stiffened, adrenaline turning her veins to ice.
"You always say that," David's voice replied, low and warm, the same voice that once whispered promises across their pillow in the dead of night. "But you know I mean it. I hate going home to her after you."
It felt like a punch to the stomach.
Sarah clutched the counter, steadying herself as if the world had begun to spin. Her heart thudded in her ears. Her knees threatened to give way. A thousand thoughts ran through her mind at once—but none stuck. Her eyes burned.
"Should I wear the red lace again?"
"God, yes. You in that set? I swear I lose my mind…"
Then—click. Silence. The call had ended.
She stood motionless in the center of her kitchen, her phone in one hand, the shirt in the other. The collar of David's shirt brushed against her wrist, and she dropped it like it had burned her.
That voice. That woman's voice—it had sounded… familiar. Almost like—
She shut her eyes. No. Don't go there. Not yet.
She felt sick. The bile rose in her throat, but she swallowed it back.
David. Her David. Her husband of Three years. The man who once left love notes in her shoes, who stayed up all night by her bedside after her miscarriage, who kissed her temple every morning like it was instinct.
Liar.
The thought came unbidden and harsh.
That same thought clawed at her, dragging up memories of her childhood—abandoned by parents who cared more for their vices than her, leaving her with a deep-seated fear of being unwanted. Had she been fooling herself all along, believing she'd found stability with him after years of emotional scars?
Her mind churned like crazy. Part of her wanted to confront him, to scream until her voice gave out, to demand answers for the years she'd devoted to him—cooking his meals, enduring his late nights with a smile, building a life around his ambition.
Another part, smaller but insistent, whispered caution. What if I'm wrong? What if it's a misunderstanding? Or what if it's something I did? The familiarity of the woman's voice haunted her, a phantom she couldn't name, fueling her doubt. Is it someone I know? Someone I trust? The idea twisted like a knife, igniting a storm of self-blame. Did I miss the signs? Was I too naive, too trusting, clinging to a marriage that was already dead? Her hands clenched into fists, nails digging into her palms as she wrestled with the urge to collapse or fight. The weight of her vulnerability pressed down, threatening to drown her,
Sarah didn't cry. Not yet. There was no room for tears, only static in her chest and a question screaming over and over inside her mind:
Why?
The mansion's opulence—the crystal chandelier overhead, the marble counters—felt like a mockery now, a gilded cage built on lies. She thought of the $200 million David had hidden, a secret she'd stumbled upon in his financial records last month, dismissed as a business maneuver until this moment. Has he been planning to divorce her? ready to cast her aside?
Sarah's stomach churned with a mix of anger and fear. The thought of losing everything—their home, her dignity, the life she'd built—pushed her toward panic, her breath hitching as she imagined herself on the streets,
When David Caldwell walked in through the front door twenty minutes later, he was wearing his usual Friday-night wear: a navy jacket thrown over a charcoal shirt, his Rolex gleaming at his wrist. His hair was wind-tousled, like he'd just stepped out of a luxury car commercial. The man knew how to play the part.
He set his keys on the foyer table and looked up.
Sarah had resumed folding laundry. Calm. Collected. The perfect wife.
"Hey, honey," he said casually, walking toward the kitchen. "Didn't expect to be back this early, but the meeting wrapped faster than I thought."
"Welcome back," she replied without looking at him.
"Work's a nightmare nowadays." he said while checking what was for dinner. "That's why I'm usually late these days, you have no idea how lucky you are, all you do is just stay at home, cook and clean"
She could feel his eyes on her—searching. Calculating. Waiting to see if she knew.
But she didn't flinch.
Instead, she held up one of his shirts and gave a small, practiced smile. "I washed your suits. One had a red stain on the collar."
He blinked. Then laughed.
"Red wine. Spilled it during lunch."
"Right." She nodded and laid the shirt into the basket. Her hands were steady now. Her heartbeat wasn't.
The moment he was out of sight, she exhaled, her knees nearly buckling under the weight of her suppressed rage. He's really good at acting, she thought. Part of her wanted to storm after him, demand the truth, hurl the phone at his lying face, but fear—of his anger, of losing everything—held her back. The familiarity of that voice kept tugging at her, a mystery that deepened her torment. [Who is she? Someone I know? Lisa maybe?]
Lisa's smooth teasing voice haunted her again, its familiarity very similar. Could it be…? She hesitated, her internal conflict surging. Confronting Lisa meant facing one of her only friends, a woman she'd confided in during her darkest moments. The thought twisted her gut—If it's her, I've been a fool twice over. The thought of betrayal by a friend or someone she knew clawed at her, but she shoved it down, her pride warring with her pain.
She glanced at the phone, its screen dark now, and made a decision. [I can't confront him yet. Not without proof]. The idea of bottling it up felt like swallowing glass, her emotions a volatile mix of hurt, anger, and self-doubt. But she knew she had to be smart. [I'll investigate quietly].
There were things she needed to be sure of.
She needed proof.
He came up behind her, hands sliding around her slender waist, breath against her neck. "Missed you today."
Her body tensed. "Mmm," she murmured.
She didn't pull away. She let him kiss her cheek, play the husband, act like nothing happened. Because if she showed her hand too soon, he'd shut down. He'd erase, hide, clean. He'd lie with the confidence of a man who never thought he'd be caught.
No. She needed leverage. Not a broken heart.
That night, Sarah sat in the dim light of her home office. Her laptop glowed faintly in front of her. The search history was clean—too clean. David was meticulous, like he always had been.
But he had a weakness: vanity.
She accessed the call logs synced to their family mobile plan. One number appeared consistently late at night—around eleven. The call durations varied. Fifteen minutes. Forty. One had lasted over an hour and a half.
She jotted the number down.
The next step: To hire a private investigator.
The contact came from a quiet forum she had joined under an anonymous name. It was a service tailored for women in her exact situation. She transferred money discreetly from her personal savings account—the one David didn't know about—and typed her request with the precision of a woman who'd already died once emotionally.
"I want to know who she is. I want photos. I want receipts. I want the truth."
The response came minutes later.
It'll take a week. Maybe less.
Seven days later, Sarah received a file. A black folder in a plain envelope, delivered to her grandmother's address—just in case. Her fingers hovered over the seal.
She opened it slowly.
Photos. Dozens of them. David at hotels. David smiling. David kissing a woman with sleek brown hair and designer heels. David slipping a keycard into a private condo unit.
Then came the final image.
The woman.
Face turned just enough toward the camera.
Sarah's breath hitched.
She knew that face.
High cheekbones. Smoky eyes. That voice. That voice.
A memory hit her—laughing over wine on girls' night, comforting each other during breakups, exchanging birthday gifts.
The file slipped from Sarah's hands, scattering photos across the desk.
She didn't need to read the name.
But it was printed at the bottom anyway.
Lisa Hargrove.
Her best friend.
One of her only two friends.
As night fell, Sarah sat in the darkened laundry room, a shattered vase was still on the floor, a metaphor for her marriage. David's snores drifted from their bedroom, oblivious to her turmoil. Finally going to the bedroom to sleep, she stared at David's phone, wondering how many more secrets laid within, then a single message notification lit the screen: "Can't wait for tomorrow, babe. She'll never suspect a thing." The sender's name glowed in the dark: Lisa Hargrove. Again.
To be continued in Chapter 2...