Chapter 2

Married life with "Rylan" was intoxicating.

The man who returned from our honeymoon was nothing like the cautious, reserved boyfriend I'd dated for a year. He was bolder, more possessive, more present. Before the wedding, Rylan would come home from work, kiss my forehead, and disappear into his office until midnight. Now, he'd walk through the door, press me against the kitchen counter, and make me forget what I was cooking.

I wasn't complaining.

"What happened to you?" I teased one morning, still breathless, my back against the shower tiles. Water streamed over both of us. His hands were on my hips, his forehead resting against mine.

He smirked. "Marriage changed me."

"Clearly."

"You don't like it?"

I pulled him closer by the jaw. "I didn't say that."

He laughed—a low, dangerous sound—and pressed me harder against the wall.

If anything, I was falling more in love with him than before. The intensity, the confidence, the way he looked at me like I was the only thing in the room worth seeing. Jessie noticed, too.

"You're glowing," she said over brunch, pointing her mimosa at me. "Like, annoyingly glowing. What is he doing to you?"

"Everything," I admitted, unable to suppress my grin.

Jessie leaned forward. "Details. Now."

I gave her the highlights—enough to make her choke on her drink.

"That's not the same Rylan who once asked you if he could hold your hand on your fourth date," she said, eyes wide.

"People change after marriage."

"People don't change that much." She studied me for a moment. "Not that I'm complaining on your behalf. Ride the wave, babe."

I brushed off her skepticism. She didn't know Rylan the way I did.

Except—there were small things.

Tiny, almost imperceptible shifts that I cataloged somewhere in the back of my mind without fully acknowledging them.

Rylan used to drink his coffee black. Now he added cream.

He used to sleep on the left side of the bed. Now he gravitated to the right.

His favorite restaurant had been a quiet Italian place on the Upper East Side. Last week, when I suggested it, he paused for half a second—just half a second—before saying, "Sure."

When we got there, he didn't seem to recognize the owner, who greeted him by name.

"Long time, Mr. Ashford! Your usual table?"

"Of course," he replied smoothly.

But his eyes had scanned the room first. Like he'd never been inside before.

I shook it off. People forget things. Stress, work, the adjustment of newlywed life—any of it could explain these minor inconsistencies.

Then came the scar.

We were lying in bed one night, my head on his chest, my fingers tracing lazy patterns on his skin. My thumb brushed over a small, raised line just below his left rib.

I froze.

"When did you get this?" I asked.

"Get what?"

"This scar. I've never noticed it before."

A beat of silence. His chest rose and fell beneath me.

"Childhood thing," he said. "Fell off a bike."

"You told me you never had any scars."

"I forgot about that one."

I propped myself up on my elbow, searching his face in the dim light. His expression was perfectly calm. Unreadable.

"You forgot about a scar on your own body?"

He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. His thumb lingered on my cheekbone. "Come here," he murmured, pulling me back down. "Stop interrogating me."

His mouth found mine, and within seconds, I forgot what I'd been asking.

That was the pattern. Every time I noticed something off, he'd redirect me—with a kiss, with sex, with some grand romantic gesture that made me feel foolish for doubting him.

But doubt is a seed. Once planted, it grows whether you water it or not.

Two weeks later, I found something I couldn't explain away.

I was looking for a cufflink in his dresser when my hand brushed against something cold and metallic at the back of the drawer.

A second phone.