Room Key to the End of Our Marriage

The hotel called, politely reminding me that the condoms used last night were unpaid and had been charged to my membership card.

I was stunned. I'd been working late until midnight and hadn't set foot in any hotel.

I confronted my husband, the only person who knew my card code.

Nathan Phelps looked at me, bewildered. "Honey, that hotel costs over $10,000 a night. I'd never go there. It's probably a system error. Someone must have mistyped the card number. I'll file a complaint tomorrow."

Unconvinced, I called my best friend, who managed the hotel. "Tracy, check who Nathan was with at the hotel last night. I'm catching him red-handed."

...

Nathan Phelps's flimsy excuse was almost laughable.

When my best friend, Tracy Frye, became the hotel's manager and investor, she gifted me a lifetime VIP card for free stays as a birthday present, tied exclusively to my identity. No one else could use it.

Yet the hotel claimed I'd checked into the presidential suite last night and used the room's condoms.

I double-checked with the front desk, and they insisted it was me who had checked in.

Fury surged through me. When I'd once suggested trying the hotel, Nathan had snapped, "Isn't our house good enough? You're such a big spender. I’ve never seen anyone spend money like you do."

But it was my card, a gift from my friend. Why couldn't I use it? The more I thought about it, the angrier I got, driving straight to the hotel.

With the holiday approaching, the lobby buzzed with guests checking in. I waited nearly half an hour for the front desk to clear.

"I'm Alva Phelps," I said, struggling to keep my voice steady. "You called me this morning."

The receptionist glanced up, confused. "Ms. Phelps? But you're already back in your room. You just requested no housekeeping ten minutes ago and activated the do-not-disturb service."

I narrowed my eyes, realizing someone was brazenly using my name to stay there. My teeth clenched. "I'm the real Alva Phelps."

The receptionist eyed me skeptically. "Ma'am, if you don't have a reservation, please leave. We're very busy, and I can't deal with troublemakers. The lady checked in with her husband using a VIP card. I haven't seen her, but Mr. Phelps is a regular. There's no mistake."

Her words hit like a thunderbolt. My husband passed off as someone else's? The irony stung.

Just then, the elevator dinged, and Carrie Schmidt stepped out, dressed in a sleek, new-season Chanel suit. Around her neck was the $1.8-million diamond necklace I'd bought at a jewelry auction.

Carrie was an alumna who had just graduated from college.

The receptionist pointed at her, relieved. "That's Mrs. Phelps. The real one is here, so please leave and stop causing a scene."

Carrie's face paled at the sight of me, but she quickly plastered on a fake smile. "Alva, what a small world! You're staying here, too?"

I shook off her hand, my voice icy. "Care to explain why you're checked in under my name? Why are your condoms charged to my card? And why are you wearing my shoes and calling Nathan your husband?"