I completely lost my appetite. After forcing down a couple of bites, I limped back to bed and curled up under the covers, hoping to sleep.

Zachary didn't notice anything was off. Just like always, he scooted close and tucked his head into the curve of my neck. His stubble grazed my skin, sending an uncomfortable prickling sensation down my spine.

He rubbed his hands together to warm them before holding my hands under the blanket.

He always paid attention to these little details—so much so that he made me believe that we had always loved each other this deeply.

But only I knew the truth. There was already an insurmountable wall between us.

He pressed his forehead lightly against mine while gently rubbing my calf. "Is your leg hurting again? Just rest, okay? Get some sleep. You'll feel better when you wake up."

I kept my expression blank with my lips pressed into a tight line, refusing to say a word.

Zachary didn't notice anything strange. He just kissed my forehead, grabbed his jacket, and stood up.

"I've got work," he said. "Need to head out for a bit. Be good and wait for me, alright?"

An uncontrollable tremor ran through me as my chest tightened with a sharp sting of something I couldn't quite name.

I bit down hard on my lip to swallow the lump in my throat. "Work? On a Sunday?"

For a brief second, his face stiffened, but then he quickly smoothed it over, answering in that same patient tone. "Yeah. This project is important. The client's priority comes first, so I have to work around their schedule."

My nails dug into my palm, leaving behind deep, crescent-shaped indents. I forced a smile and nodded approvingly. "Alright. Go, then."

Before I could say anything else, the door clicked shut behind him.

He was… in such a hurry, as if staying even a second longer and listening to me might make a difference.

He didn't even pause to wonder why I was so understanding today—when, in the past, I never let him get away with working on weekends.

How ridiculous. We spent nine, almost ten years together—since we were 17 and till now, 27.

And in the end, he still cheated on me with a woman from a massage parlor.

I lay in bed, tossing and turning.

This wasn't the first time I'd caught Zachary lying to me. But when did I first realize something was off? It was the day I woke up in the hospital after my car accident.

Thinking back about it, I found it almost laughable. When I opened my eyes, there wasn't a single familiar face beside me.

It wasn't until I asked the nurse to call Zachary that he finally showed up breathless, with hair a mess, and with a container of seafood chowder in his hand.

One of his shirt buttons was fastened wrong as if he'd dressed in a hurry and hadn't even noticed.

The Zachary I knew was never sloppy. His hair was always perfectly styled, and his clothes were always pressed and immaculate. It was rare to see him so unkempt.

He told me he'd gone out to buy breakfast, estimating when I'd wake up so he could be there.

But he forgot that by 11:00 am, breakfast hours were long over. And he also forgot that I was allergic to seafood.

The truth was obvious. He was desperate for an excuse, so he grabbed whatever was left at the hospital cafeteria.

If it had been anything else, maybe I wouldn't have questioned him. Perhaps I would've been convinced.

But it was seafood chowder.

Even fate seemed unwilling to let me stay blind. It shoved the truth in my face, forcing me to see it. It wanted me to save myself.

A few days earlier, a woman added me on Facebook. She sent me a message with only her name, "Tiffany Larson."

I didn't think much of it. People often reached out through Facebook for art commissions, so I made a note of her name and moved on.

That was until I noticed that Zachary also had a "Tiffany Larson" in his friend list.

It was probably a burner account—the profile picture was different from the one saved in Zachary's phone under the name "Tiffany", and the username didn't match either.

Profile pictures can be faked, and usernames can be changed, but photos can't lie.

In her posts, I saw Zachary in places I had never been.

A side profile of him wearing glasses, working on his laptop at a massage parlor.

His hand intertwined with someone else's in a hotel room.

A picture of him strolling through a mall, looking far too comfortable with someone by his side.

There were even pictures of him in an unfamiliar bedroom, and in every photo, his face was either turned away or blurred in the background.

Her most recent post was from the day I woke up after my accident. It was taken inside Zachary's car.

She had intentionally framed the shot to show his left hand without a wedding ring. But I still recognized that it was Zachary instantly.

A faint scar ran across his left index finger—a mark from the time he tried cooking for me when he was 22 years old and cut himself.

I felt so bad for him that I bought countless scar creams, but he refused to use them. He told me it was a symbol of his love for me, and it was something he'd tell our future child about one day.

But before that child could even exist, he had already turned those promises into empty words.

None of her posts had captions. It seemed like she had posted those photos just for me to see.

What a blatant provocation.

My vision blurred, and my stomach twisted violently. A wave of nausea rose in my throat, and I lurched toward the trash can, retching. However, nothing came out.

At that moment, something inside me shifted.

This marriage was beyond saving. It was tattered and broken beyond repair—patching it up now would only be humiliating.

I slept until 8:00 pm. The apartment was dead silent—Zachary hadn't come home.

I played his voice message.

"Darling, I might not be back tonight. I have to entertain a client. I ordered your favorite steak—it's at the door. When you wake up… mm, make sure to heat it up before you eat."

He remembered that I loved steak; remembered that my stomach was sensitive, and that I couldn't eat cold food. He even remembered to remind me.

He knew and remembered everything.

And yet, he still cheated.

His voice was hoarse while his breathing was ragged—like a dying fish gulping for air.

A cold, sinking feeling spread through my body, like I'd fallen into an icy river. My limbs felt weak, and even my head felt unbearably heavy.

Why would he send me a voice message while they were in bed? Did they get off on this?

Without thinking, I called him.

"Is there something wrong with the project?" I asked. "Or do your clients just not have wives and kids to go home to this late at night?"

A soft, breathy moan slipped through the speaker.

For a second, there was silence. Then, maybe out of guilt, his clumsy and unconvincing words tumbled out. "Darling, I think I had too much to drink. Let's talk when I sober up tomorrow."

With that, Zachary hung up, leaving nothing but a deadline.

Drunk? Please. I had just interrupted him having the time of his life.

The takeout sitting outside had long gone cold. I tossed it into a plate and stuck it in the microwave, watching the numbers count down.

My mind was blank, and the only thing I could feel was the dull, hollow beating of my own heart.

I pulled up a number in my contacts. The call barely rang once before it connected.

"Ethan. Is Zachary with you? He's not picking up. Tell him to come home right away. I need to talk to him."

There was a pause before Ethan Cole chuckled. "Sienna? Yeah, Zachary's here. He was exhausted and got knocked out early. It's late, and driving back wouldn't be safe. If it's important, I'll have him explain everything to you tomorrow."

In an instant, the air between us turned still.

I'd known Ethan and Zachary for almost ten years. I thought I knew them inside and out and had treated them well. But tonight, they stood on the same side, finding a way to deceive me.

One cheated while the other covered for him. They had a rapport like clockwork. Such a seamless execution, huh?

I must have gone quiet for too long because Ethan's laughter had faded. "If it's urgent, I can tell him to head back now."

A single tear slid down my cheek. I had never felt so pathetic.

So I laughed lightly and said, half-jokingly, "So you're the important client Zachary's been entertaining? I had no idea you were in that kind of business."

There was a beat of silence. Just two seconds.

Then Ethan laughed again. "Come on, I was just trying my luck in different fields. What kind of 'important client' am I?"

Such a loyal and dedicated best friend through and through. But I was done playing along.

I was tired—tired of holding the right answer in my hands while they played dumb, pretending I didn't know.

"Ethan. Has anyone ever told you you're a terrible liar? Zachary cheated. I know. And now, I also know you've been covering for him."

He didn't give up easily. "That's ridiculous! You know how much Zachary loves you. You don't trust me? If Zachary ever cheated, I'd break his legs myself."

He added, "Sienna, are you sure you're not just exhausted? Maybe you need rest—you've been so paranoid lately."

Of course.

To everyone else, Zachary would always be the perfect husband—the devoted, considerate man who adored me.

Without saying anything else, I sent Ethan a screenshot of Tiffany's post.

We'd been best friends for ten years. I refused to believe he didn't recognize the man in that picture.