Chapter 3

I didn't go home.

I took a cab to Golden Sky.

The security at the upscale complex was tight. I couldn't get in.

I sat down at a coffee shop across from the complex entrance and ordered an iced Americano.

Facing the main gate directly.

At 4 PM, a white Porsche Panamera drove into the complex.

The driver was a young woman, with big waves in her hair and exquisite makeup.

I recognized her—the silhouette of Brooks's "sister" from his social media.

Marta.

She was pregnant, her belly already quite prominent, probably six or seven months along.

She parked the car, carried several luxury brand shopping bags, and walked into the building entrance with an elegant posture.

That Porsche, market price over a million dollars.

Brooks's "sister," an intern with mediocre abilities and a flighty attitude, driving a million-dollar luxury car, living in a multimillion-dollar mansion.

Who would believe it?

I sat there until dark.

At 7:30, Brooks's car arrived.

He got out, carrying a thermos container.

It was the chicken soup I'd prepared for him this morning.

He said he'd be working late with the team tonight, asked me to make extra so he could take it to the office for everyone.

Now, that thermos had appeared at Golden Sky.

He swiped the access card expertly and walked into the building.

A few minutes later, a window on the 18th floor lit up.

I looked at that window.

My phone rang. It was Brooks.

"Honey, just finished the meeting, I'm exhausted. What are you doing at home?"

His voice carried a hint of laughter, sounding like he was in a good mood.

"Getting ready for bed."

"So early? Where's Bonnie?"

"Finished her homework, watching TV."

"Mm, I'll probably be home late tonight, still have some project details to hammer out. You and Bonnie go to bed early, don't wait up for me."

"Okay."

I hung up.

I looked at the lights on the 18th floor.

His project, his team, were all behind that window.

I took out my phone and started searching for information on Marta.

Her social media name was "Princess Marta," very fitting for her image.

The account was private, but the profile picture wasn't locked—it was a selfie.

The background showed a yacht, sea breeze blowing through her long hair, her smile radiant.

Around her neck was a necklace, a Bvlgari charity edition.

I had one too. Two years ago on our wedding anniversary, I'd dragged Brooks to buy it.

At the time, he said the chain was too thin and small, terrible value.

I said it was a gift for our first wedding anniversary, the meaning was different.

He couldn't argue with me, so he bought it.

Now, an identical necklace hung around Marta's neck.

I continued scrolling through her profile.

Although the content was private, the likes list was public.

I saw a familiar avatar—Brooks's alternate account.

He'd told me this account was for gaming, with only a few people on the friends list.

He'd liked every single one of Marta's posts.

Following the trail, I clicked into his alternate account's profile.

The photo album was locked, but I could see the cover photo.

Two hands, a man's hand and a woman's hand.

Fingers intertwined, the woman's hand wearing a huge diamond ring, the size of a pigeon egg.

The background was the Eiffel Tower.

Date taken: October last year.

Last October, Brooks said he was going on a two-week business trip to Europe to research the market.

I'd specifically bought him a thick coat, reminding him it was cold there and to dress warmly.

Turns out, his "market research" was taking Marta to Paris to buy a diamond ring.

I opened Marta's other social media platform.

This account was public, mostly photos of quiet beautiful moments and inspirational quotes.

One post from six months ago stood out.

"The arrival of new life is heaven's best gift. Thank you, husband, for giving me a home."

The attached images showed an ultrasound report.

And a pregnancy test with two red lines.

The first comment was from Brooks's gaming alternate account.

He'd commented two words: "My love." Followed by a heart emoji.

I stared at his comment.

He had two wives.

One was me—who'd built the company with him from nothing, bore and raised his child, stayed home cooking and keeping house.

The other was Marta—young and beautiful, able to satisfy all his vanity, carrying his "son."

I closed my phone.

The iced Americano had melted into water. Not cold at all anymore.