Chapter 2

I barely slept—sat in the guest room window seat and watched the sky go from black to gray.

My head was a mess—the look on Damian’s face as he breathed that name tangled with Lila’s smirking face from school, weaving an unending dream I couldn’t wake from.

My heart ached in dull, slow knives.

Just before dawn, Damian’s phone started ringing in the living room. He must’ve fallen deeply asleep; it rang and rang.

I went out barefoot, picked it up.

The name on the screen flicked its tongue like a snake—LiLi.

I drew a breath, answered, and said nothing.

A voice I’d know till I died oozed through, already half in tears, syrup-thick and tremulous.

“Damian… I had the scariest nightmare… I woke up shaking and my heart’s racing… I miss you so much…”

It was perfectly pitched—sticky and brittle.

Then, from the bedroom, Damian’s husky, newly-woken voice drifted out from his other private phone—gentle in a way I’d never heard him speak before.

“Hey, hey, it’s just a dream… I’m here. Don’t be scared.”

Patient. Tender. A man soothing a child.

“Did I wake you? I’m sorry… I really am so frightened…”

“It’s okay, silly. Waking up for you is worth it. Try to sleep, hmm? I’ll stay with you…”

I ended the call in my hand. The screen went black and reflected my bloodless, numb face.

In that moment, the last scrap of my wishful thinking shattered.

So he wasn’t naturally cold. He wasn’t incapable of gentleness. He knew perfectly well how to comfort.

He’d just given it to someone else.

What I had treasured as “our” tenderness had silently shifted the day he met Lila. And I, idiot that I was, didn’t see clearly until now and in this way.

The pain in my chest numbed over. Something cold and hard grew in the wreckage.

Scream? Demand? Beg?

No. That would only make Lila snicker on the other end of the phone—and make Damian judge me more harshly, less “reasonable,” less worthy than his “fragile” darling.

I couldn’t drown in heartbreak.

I had to see exactly how ugly this was.

I went to the study, opened my laptop. Every device in our home—Damian’s work phone and tablet included—synced to our shared cloud. I’d set it up to keep house stuff easy to handle together. Only I knew the passwords.

I never imagined I’d use it to investigate my husband.

My fingertips were cold; my hands were steady.

I synced his recent call logs, texts, chat apps (even the “hidden” ones), transfers, itineraries…

Data flooded in, spreading like a cruel mural.

Ambiguous transfers. Frequent hotel bookings. Furniture purchases for an apartment… Time stamps crawled like ants over what I’d thought was a peaceful two years.

Then my eye locked on a calendar reminder from last week.

Anniversary dinner: Rivera Restaurant, 7:00 P.M.—the place we went every year.

My stomach dropped.

He’d been an hour late that night, a strange perfume clinging to his suit. He’d said there’d been an emergency meeting, then “made it up to me” with a necklace, more expensive than any he’d given before. I’d felt sorry for how hard he worked…

My fingers shook as I opened the synced chat thread.

Under that dinner reminder was this exchange with Lila.

Lila: Baby, do you really have to take that old hag out for your anniversary dinner? I’m not happy.

Damian: Be good, it’s just for show. A formality. You know who I’ll be thinking of.

Lila: Then come over after, okay? I’ve got a “surprise” waiting.

Damian: Wait for me.

…

Tears finally fell on the keyboard—not from sorrow, but from a sick, clean rage.

On our anniversary, he’d called dinner with me “for show,” “a formality,” all while planning to run to her afterward.

And I, idiot that I was, wore that filthy necklace with gratitude.

I wiped my face hard.

Don’t cry. Not now.

I screenshot, downloaded, and filed everything—labeled, encrypted. Fast, precise.

When I finished, daylight had filled the room.

I heard Damian moving in the bedroom.

I shut down, wiped my traces, and went to the kitchen. Coffee growled. Eggs hissed in the pan.

My pulse raced; my hands were steady.

He came out in a perfect suit. Guilt flickered in his eyes, quick as a gnat, then slipped away.

“Aurora… last night…” He tried.

I turned with a blank face and cut him off. “We were both too heated. Divorce isn’t small. After Mabel’s birthday next month. She’s been looking forward to it. I won’t disappoint her.”

Our daughter’s name hit the one nerve he had left.

Relief washed over him. Maybe he even felt lucky I wasn’t “making a scene.” He nodded quickly. “Of course. You’re right. The birthday matters.”

He stepped in to give me the old morning hug; I slid away to reach a mug.

“The coffee’s ready,” I said evenly. “Don’t be late for work.”

He took it, shot me a complicated look, and said nothing.

Watching him go, I knew it: the war had started.

And I wouldn’t lose.

Keep him calm. Buy time. Birthday, assets, evidence… One step at a time.

Lila. Damian.

Wait and see.