Cloe came back the next morning.
As she stepped inside, her eyes first landed on Izzy's door, then moved upstairs … but nothing seemed unusual.
She walked slowly to the kitchen. Nothing.
Then she picked up the chair pillow and brought it close to her nose, inhaling discreetly.
Everything was in its place. The bed made, the living room immaculate, the bottles on the counter arranged as if no one had ever been careless with them.
She let out a breath that could have been disappointment or relief. Either way, she didn't reveal which.
Mathias appeared, reaching for his coffee as if morning were nothing more than the next task.
"Oh, Mathias, my darling," Cloe said, voice warm and too bright. She stepped into the kitchen and let the words hang like a test. "The party was spectacular. Everyone kept staring. They couldn't stop talking about my dress. Did you see?"
He glanced at her without really looking. "Yeah. You do." The line was flat; warmth absent.
"You can't even hold a conversation," she said, tracing the corner of the countertop like a seamstress pulling a thread. "Every time I try to start, you cut me off with one-word answers. It's rude, Mathias."
He set his mug down, the clink loud in the still morning. "I'm tired," he said. "Work."
"You weren't at the party," she shot back. "You could at least pretend to listen."
He shrugged. "People were right. You are sexy. Beautiful. But they probably didn't see the whining and nagging part of you."
The words were small and sharp, landing like a hand on the small of her back — meant to move her, to correct her.
Cloe's smile thinned. "You must be thinking I'm stupid," she said, horror creeping into her tone.
"No," Mathias said, gathering his wallet and ID. "Just honest."
He moved toward the door, not waiting for her to respond. He didn't look back. Gone in two strides.
She watched the doorway close and waited two beats, then laughed softly to herself…a small, private sound with no joy. "Fine," she muttered, turning to the bedroom. "Play your games."
She began her search again, more deliberate this time. If there was nothing in plain sight, proof would be in the details: a different fold in the sheet, a smudge of perfume on a collar, or a misplaced item. She checked the laundry basket. Rifled through the nightstand drawers with steady hands.
Under the pillow: nothing. Between the mattress and frame: nothing. Her hands chilled anyway.
At the foot of the bed, where Mathias usually discarded his jacket, she paused. She retrieved it and turned it over in her hands. The cuff was neat, the lining pristine … except for a bra hook caught in the seam. It was almost invisible, the sort of thing someone might never notice.
Cloe pinched the hook between her fingers and held it up to the light. Its size, its curve, the delicate metal … it whispered secrets. She slid it into her palm and pressed her thumb over it like an accusing clue.
She paced the living room, sipping coffee ….she didn't plan to drink. Her mind turned over possibilities. How long has this been going on? How bold would Mathias get? And how clever had Izzy been, hiding in plain sight?
Izzy appeared in the doorway with a tray, silent as always. "Good morning, Mrs. Monroe," she said, smooth and courteous.
"Good morning," Cloe returned, studying her carefully. "You handled everything well last night. I appreciate that."
Izzy's smile was practiced. "Thank you, ma'am. I will try."
Cloe tilted her head. "Did you notice anything unusual? Noise? Visitors? Anything… out of place?"
Izzy's hands paused over the tray. For a microsecond, a flicker crossed her face. Could be nerves. Could be nothing. "No, ma'am. Everything was normal."
Cloe watched her a bit longer than necessary. "Good. Keep it that way."
Izzy nodded, eyes down, moving to the sink. The small bra hook in Cloe's pocket burned against her palm like a promise.
She didn't accuse her. She didn't create a scene. That would be messy, public, and give Mathias room to claim outrage. She needed a pattern, not a panic. Proof that couldn't be dismissed as paranoia.
She dressed carefully — simple blouse, neutral jacket, no drama. She would be visible, not theatrical. The bored wife who had found nothing, yet held the quiet center of the house.
When Mathias came home that evening, smooth and practiced in deflection, he found Cloe waiting at the table, wine poured, face neutral. He walked in, shrugged off his coat, and reached for the console to leave his keys.
Cloe watched every movement. She let him hang the coat, let him brush over the polished wood, then spoke, measured and cold.
"You were busy," she said. Observation, not question.
"Yeah," he replied. "Long day." Relaxed enough to be dangerous.
"Did anything happen at the office…that I should know about?" she asked, soft and deliberate.
Mathias blinked. "Nothing of note."
"What about last night? Did something happen?"
"No!" Mathias snapped.
She smiled, though it didn't reach her eyes. "Good. Because I went through the apartment today. I found a bra hook." She let it hang.
"A bra hook?" His tone was careless, trivial. He moved closer.
"Small," she said. "Metal, delicate. From a woman's lingerie. Do you know what I mean?"
Mathias paused. A micro-expression flickered … annoyance, calculation, then measured denial. "No. Maybe a snag. Maybe a loose thread from …"
"From whose clothes?" Cloe interrupted. "From a woman who cleans here?" Each word is deliberate.
Mathias's jaw tightened. "You're imagining things."
Cloe leaned forward. "Either I'm imagining things, and I'll leave it. Or I'm not, and I will find out exactly what kind of mistake someone made in my home." Her eyes were flat and precise. "I don't play at being stupid, Mathias."
"Listen," he said evenly. "I have to go to the office early tomorrow. Meetings. I'll be back late."
She watched him gather his bag. The bra hook in her palm felt like a bet.
As he reached the door, his phone vibrated. A flicker of something ….annoyance? Guilt?....passed across his face. He stepped out, closing the door, leaving the apartment quiet again.
Cloe folded the hook into a scrap of paper, slipped it into her clutch, and walked to the window. People moved below like puppets in someone else's show.
Mathias muttered under his breath as he stormed to the car.
"To marry a nagging wife… It's like signing my own death sentence. I can't breathe in my own house. I have to run …always on the run."
He gripped the keys, kicked the tire hard, the sound echoing off the empty driveway. The engine roared, a beast echoing his restless energy.
Then, unable to contain it, he threw up his arms and shouted into the empty street:
"Someone should rescue me!
I need someone to rescue me!
I'm going insane!"
Then he got into his car and drove off.
Izzy watched him through the window, her hand on her chest, silently wishing that Mathias were already hers.
Meanwhile, Cloe had made up her mind to make his life a living hell, since he couldn't keep his third leg in check.
Now the heat was on.
Izzy was about to make her move.
Cloe was ready to set
her plans in motion.
Who would come out on top?
Mathias has made up his mind that nothing, not even Cloe, could cage him.