The digital clock on my nightstand glowed 3:00 AM when I slipped out of bed. James slept soundly beside me, his breathing deep and even. I paused, watching his face in the dim light filtering through our curtains. How peaceful he looked—as if he hadn't destroyed seven years of trust in a matter of weeks.
I pulled on a hoodie and slipped out of our bedroom, my footsteps silent against the hardwood floors. The garage was cold and still, James's BMW sitting in its usual spot. I ran my fingers along its sleek surface before reaching for the dashcam mounted on the windshield.
My hands trembled slightly as I pried open the plastic casing. The memory card was smaller than my thumbnail, yet it held the truth I desperately needed. I replaced it with an identical one I'd purchased yesterday, tucking the original into my pocket.
"We need to talk about your ear infection," I whispered to the empty car, thinking of the bite marks I'd glimpsed. "Or should I say, who gave it to you?"
---
"Mrs. Williamson?" The data recovery specialist looked up from his computer screen, his expression cautious. "I've managed to recover most of the deleted footage from your memory card."
I sat rigid in the uncomfortable chair, my hands clasped tightly in my lap. "And?"
"The timestamps show regular deletions, usually within hours of recording." He turned his monitor toward me. "Would you like to view what I've recovered?"
The first video showed James driving, whistling softly along with the radio. Nothing unusual until he pulled into a parking lot with a sign that read "Lopez Wellness Sanctuary." My stomach tightened.
"Can you skip forward?" I asked, my voice steadier than I felt.
The specialist fast-forwarded through several clips until one caught my attention. James stood outside the spa's entrance, checking his watch. A woman emerged—tall, with glossy dark hair and a white uniform. Lila Lopez. Even from the grainy footage, I could see her beauty.
"What time stamp is this?" I asked.
"Last Tuesday, 2:17 PM. You said that was your husband's lunch hour?"
I nodded, unable to speak as Lila reached up to touch James's face, then pulled him down to kiss her. Their intimacy was practiced, comfortable—clearly not their first encounter.
"There's more," the specialist said quietly.
The next clip showed them in the parking lot after dark. Lila pressed James against his car, her hands tangled in his hair. As they kissed passionately, her teeth found his earlobe—the exact spot where I'd seen the bite marks.
"Stop," I whispered, looking away. "I've seen enough."
---
The following afternoon, I parked across from Lopez Wellness Sanctuary, sunglasses hiding my eyes as I watched the entrance. The spa's glass front offered a clear view of the reception area, where Lila moved gracefully among her clients.
At 3:15, James's BMW pulled into the lot. I reached for my camera, adjusting the zoom as he entered the spa. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, I watched Lila greet him with a practiced smile that transformed into genuine warmth when they thought no one was looking.
She led him to a private room visible from my position. I took photo after photo as she fed him chocolate-covered strawberries, her fingers lingering on his lips. When she began massaging his shoulders, her touch was possessive, claiming—nothing like the clinical touch of a professional therapist.
I zoomed in as she whispered something in his ear, making him laugh. The same ear she'd bitten. The same ear I used to clean every morning.
"Employee wellness initiative," I muttered, thinking of the excuse I knew he'd use. "Right."
---
"Our third-quarter expenses show a significant increase in wellness-related supplies," I said during the monthly board meeting, my voice carrying across the conference table. "I'm curious about these aromatherapy purchases from Lopez Wellness Sanctuary."
James's face flushed slightly as all eyes turned to him. "It's part of our employee wellness initiative," he explained, his voice too loud, too confident. "Stress reduction programs have been proven to increase productivity by nearly twenty percent."
"Interesting," I replied, meeting his gaze steadily. "And these particular oils and treatments—they're for our employees?"
"Of course," he insisted. "The board approved the budget for wellness programs last quarter."
I smiled thinly, letting the lie hang in the air between us.
After the meeting adjourned, Marcus Chen caught up with me in the hallway, his expression concerned.
"Rowan," he said quietly, glancing around to ensure we were alone. "I've noticed some irregular patterns in the expense reports. Particularly regarding these wellness purchases."
I turned to face him fully, sensing an ally in the making. "What kind of irregularities?"
"The invoices don't match our actual orders," he said, lowering his voice further. "And there are duplicate payments to this Lopez sanctuary that don't appear in our official records."
His eyes met mine, and I saw the question there—what was really happening between James and this mysterious vendor?
"Perhaps," I suggested softly, "we should take a closer look at those records together."
