My husband James frequently sent money to his "confidante" Vivian, fabricating his whereabouts. Tracking him to the cemetery, I discovered Vivian was his deceased wife's mother. Late one night, I overheard him choking back tears in his study: "Mom, I burned Lucy's birthday gift for her..."
The Phone's Secret
The phone buzzed again on the coffee table. James was in the kitchen making breakfast, the sizzle of eggs drowning out most of the noise. My eyes instinctively darted towards it. No name, just an unfamiliar local number. How many times this week? I silently counted. Unknown calls outside work hours were becoming unsettlingly frequent. His screen usually lit up with clearly labeled colleagues or friends.
He emerged with a breakfast plate, wearing that perfectly calibrated smile. "Morning, darling." Before the words faded, his right hand smoothly scooped the phone off the table and into his pocket. The noisy device vanished. I opened my mouth, the question "Who calls this early?" turning on my tongue before disappearing with a gulp of warm coffee. Stop it, Amy, I told myself. Since when are you so suspicious? Maybe it's just a delivery or a new client. Yet a tiny voice argued: Why never answer in front of me? Why always leave the room?
The "Confidante" Emerges
Watching a movie that night, tension mounting on screen, his phone vibrated dully on the sofa. This time, he didn’t wait for the scene to change. A quick glance at the screen, a muttered "Got to take this," and he strode to the balcony, pulling the glass door almost shut behind him. It wasn't closed tight. His voice leaked back in fragments. "Mm, I understand… Don’t worry… I’ll handle that shipment of paintings, promise…" That tone—strangely gentle, intimately familiar—was new to me. Each syllable pricked my taut nerves like tiny needles.
He returned, bringing a chill of night air with him. I stared at the flickering screen, feigning nonchalance. "Who was that? Work call this late?" He paused noticeably, took a sip of water, his eyes evasive. "It was Ms. Vivian," he finally replied, forcing calm into his voice. "You know, the seasoned art world figure I mentioned before? Incredible connections." He reached over, draping an arm around my shoulder, his knuckles pressing lightly. "Just chatting occasionally, discussing professional things. She’s been a huge help, genuinely kind... purely platonic, really."
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The Phone's Secret
The phone buzzed again on the coffee table. James was in the kitchen making breakfast, the sizzle of eggs drowning out most of the noise. My eyes instinctively darted towards it. No name, just an unfamiliar local number. How many times this week? I silently counted. Unknown calls outside work hours were becoming unsettlingly frequent. His screen usually lit up with clearly labeled colleagues or friends.
He emerged with a breakfast plate, wearing that perfectly calibrated smile. "Morning, darling." Before the words faded, his right hand smoothly scooped the phone off the table and into his pocket. The noisy device vanished. I opened my mouth, the question "Who calls this early?" turning on my tongue before disappearing with a gulp of warm coffee. Stop it, Amy, I told myself. Since when are you so suspicious? Maybe it's just a delivery or a new client. Yet a tiny voice argued: Why never answer in front of me? Why always leave the room?
The "Confidante" Emerges
Watching a movie that night, tension mounting on screen, his phone vibrated dully on the sofa. This time, he didn’t wait for the scene to change. A quick glance at the screen, a muttered "Got to take this," and he strode to the balcony, pulling the glass door almost shut behind him. It wasn't closed tight. His voice leaked back in fragments. "Mm, I understand… Don’t worry… I’ll handle that shipment of paintings, promise…" That tone—strangely gentle, intimately familiar—was new to me. Each syllable pricked my taut nerves like tiny needles.
He returned, bringing a chill of night air with him. I stared at the flickering screen, feigning nonchalance. "Who was that? Work call this late?" He paused noticeably, took a sip of water, his eyes evasive. "It was Ms. Vivian," he finally replied, forcing calm into his voice. "You know, the seasoned art world figure I mentioned before? Incredible connections." He reached over, draping an arm around my shoulder, his knuckles pressing lightly. "Just chatting occasionally, discussing professional things. She’s been a huge help, genuinely kind... purely platonic, really."
NEXT >>
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