Her Fake Affair Was Real Enough To Convince Me

But those two times, she went alone and never said a word more. I pulled up my phone calendar and circled the dates in red.

I hired a private investigator. I told no one.

All I said was, “Look into a woman. I want everything, especially what happened on those two days.”

The detective accepted quickly and promised results in three days.

For those three days, I lived like a ghost. By day, I buried myself in meetings, emails, and proposals.

By night, I came home. She slept soundly beside me. And I lay wide awake, staring at the ceiling, unmoving.

On the fourth night, my phone lit up.

A message came in. [Got results. Sending photos.]

I didn’t open it right away and waited five full minutes.

My palms were damp, my fingers trembling, and then, finally, I tapped in.

The first photo appeared. It was a sunny day. She was wearing that white dress.

I knew it instantly, and I bought it for her.

We were shopping together that day. She saw it, smiled, and said she loved it. I paid without hesitation.

In the photo, she was seated at a corner café. Across from her sat a man.

They weren’t sitting too close. No hand-holding.

But her gaze had softened, melting, tender.

Exactly like the look she wore back when I first chased her.

My knuckles turned white as I clutched the phone.

I kept swiping.

They laughed and chatted like the most in-sync couple.

The last photo, under the night sky, the two of them walked into a hotel one after the other.

Neon lights at the entrance blurred across the image.

He walked ahead. She followed, head lowered, a soft smile blooming on her face.

And then I remembered. I knew that man.

The year we got married, Averie said a college classmate was in town and invited us to dinner.

She’d called him “an old friend from back then.”

After the meal, she walked him downstairs. When she returned, her eyes were red.

She said that a classmate had praised me for being a good man.

Now, he had reappeared. By my wife’s side. At a hotel entrance.

After the last photo, the detective sent one final message. [They stayed for five hours. When she came out, she had changed clothes.]

I didn’t reply.

I sat alone on the sofa, swallowed by darkness. The lights were off, and my phone screen had long gone black.

Silence filled the room.

From the kitchen, the fridge ticked steadily. Upstairs, someone dragged a chair across the floor. Outside, rain tapped lightly against the windows.

I sat there like a hollowed-out shell, empty and unmoving.

She had lied to me.

Not for a day. Not for a month. But for years.

I replayed the look in her eyes every time she left the house, the softness in her voice over the phone, and the faint scent on her clothes when she returned.

She had hidden everything so well.

I once thought I had married someone clean. Someone I could share my life with.

But now, I wasn’t even sure who she was anymore.

I lowered my head and buried my face in my hands. My breathing turned ragged.

It felt like something had been ripped from my chest, leaving only a hollow void. Too numb to ache, too shattered to cry.

I had made up my mind to confront her.

But my thoughts were tangled, emotions boiling over, and I was right at the edge of collapse.

My lips parted to speak, but before I could, my phone lit up.

It was a message from “Wealthy Cyrus,” that same filth was from the benefits group.

I stared at the screen, my throat tightening.

[That top-tier married woman’s really something. Last time, I kissed her and hugged her, but it still wasn’t enough!]

“What…” I muttered, my voice caught halfway.

Then another photo arrived.

The necklace.

That same silver glint hit my eyes like a knife, so painfully familiar it made my stomach turn.

I had once fastened that necklace around Averie’s neck with my own hands.

And now it was in another man’s possession.

My eyes locked onto the group chat, hands trembling uncontrollably.