My eyes scan the charges from the weekend he was gone. Flight confirmation—I knew about that. Airport coffee. A ride-share from JFK. Nothing unusual, nothing damning.
Then I see it.
A charge at the Hilton bar for two hundred and forty-seven dollars.
What?
That's not a couple of drinks. That's... alotof drinks for one person.In fact, I know it’s not just for Devon. He’d be dead if he drank that much.
Unless he was trying to impress someone. Grant?
I hold my breath and screenshot it before I forget to.
I close my eyes and breathe.
This doesn't mean anything. He could’ve been drinking with anyone—a colleague, a speaker at the conference, someone he met networking. There are a thousand innocent explanations.
But I hate that I’m doing this and questioning my husband.
Instagram is next.
I search for the conference hashtag and scroll through the posts. Smiling fitness influencers. Protein shake sponsors.
Then I find her.
Mila's account isexactlywhat I expected—perfectly aesthetic and glossy, all sunset yoga poses and inspirational quotes. But it's her Highlights from that weekend that make my breath catch.
There's Devon.
In the background of a group photo at the mixer, laughing at something someone said. His head is tilted toward Mila.
I tap to the next Highlight.
A boomerang of two drinks clinking. Whiskey glasses, amber liquid catching the light. The caption reads:Old friends, new adventures.
Old friends. Two drinks.
That fucking bitch.
I want to throw my phone across the room.
Instead, I screenshot everything. The photo. The boomerang. The timestamp that shows it was posted at 11:45 PM—after Devon stopped answering my calls.
After he texted me to say he was with Grant.
He wasn't with Grant. He was withher.
I sit and absorb that fact. My husband ended a call with me and sent a text to say Grant had come over—the one person he went there to meet—but he lied. Not about the room, not about sleeping in the chair—about where he was and who he was with.
Why lie about that unless there's more?
The front door opens and I flinch, nearly dropping my phone. Devon's gym bag hits the floor with a thud.
"Hey,” he sounds wary. "I thought I'd come home for lunch. Surprise you."
You’re doing great at that all by yourself, Devon.
I don't turn around. "That's nice."
