Husband's Obsession Costs All

I smoothed down the crimson fabric of my dress for the tenth time, checking my reflection in the hallway mirror. Five years ago, I'd worn this exact dress on my first date with Troy. The memory of his eyes widening when I walked into that Swiss café still made my heart flutter. Tonight, on our fifth wedding anniversary, I wanted to recreate that magic.

The dining room looked perfect—candles flickered across the antique mahogany table, casting warm light over the carefully arranged roses. I'd spent hours preparing Troy's favorite beef Wellington, the recipe I'd perfected over our years together. The bottle of Château Margaux breathed quietly beside crystal glasses that caught the candlelight.

"Five years," I whispered to myself, touching the diamond pendant at my throat. "Five years of us."

The sound of tires on gravel signaled Troy's return. I hurried to the doorway, my heels clicking against the marble floor.

"Troy!" I called, my voice bright with excitement. "Happy anniversary!"

He looked up from his phone, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. "Clara. You look... nice."

Nice. Not stunning or breathtaking or any of the words he'd used on our first date. I pushed away the small sting of disappointment.

"I made dinner," I said, taking his briefcase. "Your favorite."

Throughout dinner, Troy's attention kept drifting to his phone. Each time it buzzed, his eyes darted down, fingers twitching as if resisting the urge to check it.

"Is everything okay at work?" I asked, slicing into my untouched Wellington.

"Hmm? Oh, yeah. Just some emails." He forked food into his mouth without looking at it.

I reached across the table and gently placed my hand over his. "I have something for you."

The small velvet box contained a watch I'd commissioned—platinum with our wedding date engraved inside the case back. The watchmaker had spent months getting it exactly right.

"Troy Gardner," I said softly, "thank you for five amazing years. Here's to many more."

He turned the watch over in his hands, nodding appreciatively. "This is... thoughtful. Thank you."

Another buzz from his phone. His eyes flickered down again.

"You should check it," I said, forcing a smile. "I don't mind."

After dinner, Troy disappeared upstairs to shower. I cleared the plates, my movements mechanical as I loaded the dishwasher. The kitchen suddenly felt too quiet, too empty.

When I heard the water running upstairs, I found myself drawn to Troy's phone on the counter. It buzzed again—Instagram. My fingers hesitated over the screen.

I shouldn't. This was private.

But another notification appeared: "Lyla Watkins posted a new video."

Lyla. The name sent ice through my veins.

Before I could stop myself, I swiped open the app. Troy hadn't logged out.

Lyla's profile filled the screen. Recent posts showed her in Paris, Monaco, skiing in Aspen. Her captions were breezy, confident: "Living my best life" and "Some people are just born lucky."

My fingers trembled as I scrolled through Troy's activity. He'd liked every single post for months. Comments too:

"Lyla, that dress is stunning on you."

"Miss seeing your smile in person."

"Still the most beautiful woman I know."

My stomach twisted. He knew her travel schedule, her favorite cafes, even commented on her workout videos with inside jokes I didn't understand.

"Clara?"

I nearly dropped the phone. Troy stood at the bottom of the stairs, hair damp from the shower.

"What are you doing?" His voice was calm, but his eyes narrowed.

"I saw Lyla's name," I said, my voice surprisingly steady. "You've been liking all her posts. Commenting on them."

Troy's face hardened. "So?"

"So? Troy, we're married. Today is our anniversary, and you're obsessively following your ex-girlfriend's every move?"

"I'm being friendly to an old acquaintance," he said, stepping closer. "It's called basic human decency, Clara. Not everything is about you."

"Not everything," I repeated, "but today should be. I made dinner. I wore this dress. I got you a gift."

"And I said thank you." He ran a hand through his hair. "Now you're being paranoid. This is exactly why I didn't tell you about running into her at that charity event last month."

My heart stopped. "You saw her? In person?"

"For five minutes, Clara. It wasn't a big deal." He sighed, as if I were a child having a tantrum. "I'm tired. I'm going to finish some work."

He turned and walked toward his study. I followed, the phone clutched in my hand like evidence in a trial.

"Troy, wait. We need to talk about this."

"I have nothing else to say." He reached his study door and turned the key in the lock. The click echoed in the hallway.

"Troy!"

"I'll be out when you're done with this jealous nonsense," he called through the door.

I stood frozen, staring at the polished wood separating us. For five years, he'd never locked me out of his study. Never once.

Then I heard it—his voice, soft and intimate, the way it used to be with me.

"No, I can't talk long," he murmured into his phone. "Clara's right outside..."

My hand flew to my mouth as his voice dropped to a whisper I couldn't quite hear. But the tenderness in those few words was unmistakable—a tone he hadn't used with me in years.