Arabella couldn't sleep.
For three nights straight, she stared at the ceiling of their penthouse, listening to the quiet. The kind of quiet that only follows after something's been taken away. Her husband was in San Francisco...or so he said, but he hadn't called, hadn't texted. Not even a cold, obligatory "goodnight."
And she hadn't dared call him either.
Instead, she scrolled through photos from the gala, trying to reassure herself. In every image, they looked perfect. His hand rested on the small of her back. His lips brushed her cheek. His smile? Convincing.
But what gnawed at her was the glass, the lipstick-stained wine glass left in their bedroom.
It hadn't been hers.
She told herself it could've been the cleaner. A guest. Anything.
But her gut said otherwise.
On the fourth day, he returned home late again. His tie loosened, jacket slung over his shoulder, hair slightly out of place. Not a single apology.
"You're back," Arabella said, rising from the couch.
"Flight delays," he muttered, tossing his keys in a cold, metallic clatter. He didn't meet her eyes.
She waited. Hoped for a kiss. A hug. Anything.
Nothing came.
He walked past her into the bedroom. Moments later, the bathroom door shut.
She stood alone in the hallway, heart in her throat, throat in her chest.
Then she noticed his phone...left charging on the entryway console. Unlocked.
Don't, her conscience whispered. Don't stoop so low.
But her fingers were already moving. Tapping. Sliding.
The last text sent:
Juliette:Missing you already. Hope she didn't notice my lipstick this time
Her blood turned to ice.
This time.
She felt sick. She paced the kitchen, clutching the phone, the bile rising in her throat.
He had lied.
He was cheating.
He had brought her into their home.
Her knees gave out as she slid to the cold tile floor, phone still glowing in her palm.
And then?
She erased the message.
Put the phone back.
Fixed her hair.
When he came out of the bathroom moments later, toweling his face, she smiled.
"Want me to order Thai? Your favorite."
He blinked at her, as if seeing a ghost. "Sure," he said.
The Next Day
Arabella sat across from her best friend, Chloe, at their usual cafe in the Upper East Side. Chloe was in full lawyer mode...eyebrows furrowed, voice sharp.
"You're kidding me," Chloe snapped. "You found lipstick in your room, saw a message from his mistress, and you ordered Thai?! Arabella, are you hearing yourself?"
"I... I just needed time to process," Arabella murmured, stirring her untouched cappuccino.
"Time to...No, babe. You need a lawyer, not lo mein!"
Arabella winced.
Chloe leaned in, lowering her voice. "He's cheating on you. He's treating you like you don't exist. What more do you need? A flashing sign that says 'RUN'?"
"I married him, Chloe. I made a vow."
"And he broke his. Repeatedly."
Arabella looked out the window. "I keep thinking he'll remember. The man I married... he loved me. I know he did. Maybe something's just wrong. Maybe it's pressure. The company. Or that woman's lying to him...manipulating him."
"Oh, so it's her fault now?" Chloe threw up her hands.
Arabella stayed silent.
Chloe stood, furious. "I love you, but if you stay in this mess, you're an idiot."
The word cut deep.
And still… Arabella went home.
Later That Week
Sebastian was leaving again. She packed his suitcase herself.
He didn't even say thank you.
"Will you be back for the weekend?" she asked, her voice soft.
"Not sure. Might be a quick turnaround."
"You said that last time."
"Then maybe it will be again."
He didn't look at her as he spoke.
Arabella hesitated, then reached for him, fingers brushing his wrist. "Sebastian…"
He froze.
She wanted to ask everything...Do you love her? Are you leaving me? Why are you doing this to me?
But what came out was: "Do you want me to wash your blue shirt before you go?"
He blinked. "Uh… yeah. Sure."
She nodded, heart sinking. "Okay."
That Night
The apartment was quiet again. She curled up on the couch in one of his old sweaters, staring at a romance movie she wasn't watching.
Suddenly, her phone rang.
Unknown number.
She answered.
A pause.
Then a silky voice: "You don't know me, but I know your husband. Very... intimately."
Arabella sat up straight. "Who is this?"
The woman chuckled. "You can call me Juliette."
Arabella's heart froze.
Juliette continued, "I just wanted you to know, you're wasting your time. He's mine now. He doesn't love you. He told me."
Click.
Arabella dropped the phone.
She stared at it, waiting for it to ring again.
It didn't.
She should've screamed.
Should've called Sebastian.
Should've packed her bags.
But instead… she picked up the phone.
And deleted the call log.