I unlocked my phone and slid it across the table.

The image glowed between us.

Her. Him. His hand on her back in a way that made something inside me want to shatter.

“Oh my God,” she whispered.

“Yes,” I said. “That was my reaction too.”

His name was Scott Vance. Forty-seven. Procurement consultant. Divorced. No kids.

I knew all of it.

Three weeks earlier, after seeing a message—Can’t stop thinking about dinner—I stopped confusing trust with blindness.

I hired a private investigator.

He followed her. Took photos. Logged hotels. Documented everything.

The report was upstairs.

I hadn’t confronted her before because I wanted certainty.

And because part of me still hoped I wouldn’t find it.

Rachel sat down hard. “It’s not serious.”

I almost smiled.

They always say that—as if casual betrayal is easier to forgive.

“You skipped my birthday for a hotel room.”

“It was supposed to be dinner.”

“That elevator wasn’t going to a restaurant.”

She cried harder.

But I felt almost nothing.

Grief had already passed. What remained was colder.

“How long?” I asked.

She covered her mouth.

“Since June.”

It was October.

Four months.

Four months of lies in our kitchen, our bed, our life.

“Does he know about me?”

She nodded.