I waited until Mathew was in the shower the next morning, steam billowing under the bathroom door. Seven minutes—that's how long his showers usually lasted. Seven minutes to find answers.
His phone sat on the nightstand, face down. No password—we'd always had an open-phone policy. A policy I now realized might have been one-sided.
The bathroom fan hummed as I scrolled through his recent calls. Most were work-related, clients and colleagues I recognized. But one number appeared repeatedly, labeled simply 'GrandM-HS.' The Grand Meridian Hotel's housekeeping services? The calls were made at odd hours—11:42 PM, 6:15 AM—times when normal dry cleaning services would be closed.
I took screenshots, my fingers trembling slightly. The shower continued running as I checked his text messages. Nothing suspicious there—Mathew was too careful for that. But those calls nagged at me. Dry cleaning services don't operate at midnight.
The water shut off. I quickly replaced his phone and pretended to be sorting through my dresser when he emerged, towel wrapped around his waist.
"Thought you'd be at work by now," he said casually, droplets of water trailing down his chest.
"Running late today," I replied, not meeting his eyes. "Big presentation this afternoon."
After he left for work, I sat in my car, staring at our suburban home with its perfect landscaping and fresh paint. We'd chosen everything together—the blue shutters, the maple tree in the front yard, the wrought iron mailbox. How much of our life together was real, and how much was just another façade?
I drove downtown during my lunch break, calling in sick for my afternoon meetings. The Grand Meridian Hotel rose twenty stories above Michigan Avenue, its glass exterior reflecting clouds and neighboring skyscrapers. I parked across the street, watching valets shuttle Bentleys and Mercedes to the underground garage.
This was it—the place where my husband spent afternoons when he should have been at work. The place that might hold the truth about my marriage.
The lobby was all marble and crystal, with staff in crisp uniforms gliding between guests. I approached the front desk, heart hammering against my ribs.
"Excuse me," I said to the young woman behind the counter. Her name tag read 'Amber.' "I'm interested in your dry cleaning services. My husband speaks very highly of them."
Amber's perfectly shaped eyebrows drew together. "Dry cleaning services?"
"Yes," I continued, forcing confidence into my voice. "Apparently they're exclusive to your executive clients? My husband, Mathew Rodriguez, uses them regularly."
Recognition flickered in her eyes at Mathew's name. "Oh, Mr. Rodriguez, yes. For the dry cleaning inquiry, you'll want to speak with Ms. Henderson. She manages our executive services."
She made a quick call, then directed me to take the elevator to the third floor. "Ms. Henderson's office is at the end of the hallway on the right. She's expecting you."
The elevator rose silently. Third floor. The doors slid open to reveal a carpeted hallway with dark wood paneling. I walked slowly, my heels sinking into plush carpet, toward the door marked 'Executive Services – K. Henderson.'
I hesitated, hand raised to knock. What would I find behind this door? What truth was I about to uncover? For a moment, I considered turning back, returning to the comforting illusion of my perfect marriage.
Then I thought of Mathew's face across the dinner table. The easy lie. The duplicate gifts.
I knocked.
"Come in," called a woman's voice.
I opened the door to find a stylishly appointed office. Behind a mahogany desk sat a woman with sleek dark hair and impeccable makeup. She stood as I entered, extending a manicured hand.
"You must be Mrs. Rodriguez," she said with a polite smile that didn't reach her eyes. "I'm Kora Henderson. How can I help you with our services today?"
