Seven Years of Lies:My Wife's Secret Affair

All because his eyes held something unmistakable—desire.

Theo lifted his wrist, letting her fasten the new watch for him.

They smiled at each other, fingers intertwining.

The watch face caught the cold overhead lights of the department store, throwing a glare that made my eyes sting.

Carrying bags of all sizes, they didn't bother shopping anymore. They headed straight to a hotel.

I watched them check in with my own eyes. Watched them step into the elevator.

Five minutes later, I pulled out my phone and dialed Yvette's number.

It rang six or seven times before she picked up. I could hear a television in the background.

"Hello? Honey?"

My voice was steady. "Where are you?"

"I just got to my parents' place. I'm busy helping set up for tonight's dinner. What's wrong?"

"Yvette." I spoke slowly. "My heart... something's wrong. I can't breathe. The pain is bad."

Silence on the other end.

She knew about my heart condition.

It wasn't serious, but it had always been a risk.

"Why so sudden... Did you take your medication?"

"I did, but it doesn't seem to be working. Can you come back? I need you to drive me to the hospital. I don't think I can drive myself..."

My words came in fragments, punctuated by ragged breaths.

"I..."

She was clearly torn.

Coming back meant abandoning Theo, who'd just checked into the hotel. It also meant fabricating a reason for leaving the Henson family dinner.

But not coming back—what if something really happened to me?

During those few seconds of hesitation, a man's voice drifted through the phone, barely audible: "Vivi, I'm out of the shower. Water's the perfect temperature."

Yvette realized immediately that I might have heard. That brief hesitation shattered into panic.

"Louis, I really can't get away right now!"

"A bunch of the elders are already here, and my dad's watching everything!"

"Just call 911 yourself! Hurry!"

Her words tumbled out fast and frantic, laced with the kind of urgency that only comes from trying to cover something up.

"I have to hang up—they're calling for me!"

The line went dead. Clean and final.

I slowly lowered the phone. The screen faded to black.

The last flicker of hope inside me went dark with it.

I glanced at the hotel one more time, then turned and walked away.

By the time I got home, dusk had settled over the city. Firecrackers popped somewhere in the distance.

My phone buzzed. A friend had sent a file, with a note: "Got what you asked for last night. Read it, and stay calm."

I opened it. A detailed background profile and timeline.

Theo Gilbert. Yvette's neighbor. Same age. They'd attended the same schools from kindergarten through high school.

In the photos, a boy and a girl growing up side by side—bright eyes, easy smiles, no distance between them.

The file described him as the closest presence throughout her entire youth.

If he hadn't insisted on studying abroad after high school, their families would have arranged a marriage long ago.

And then came a line in bold—a date that cut into me like a blade.

Theo Gilbert's first return to the country fell exactly on the eighty-seventh day of my marriage to Yvette.

That New Year's Eve. A five-star hotel in the city. Check-in records for both of them.

Their first hotel room together—on the very night I'd sat alone in front of the television, listening to firecrackers outside the window, waiting for her call that said nothing more than "the family dinner's keeping me busy."

I set the phone down, walked to the corner of the living room, and pulled out a suitcase. I started packing.

There weren't many clothes. Most were old things from before the marriage. Yvette would glance at them occasionally, say offhandedly that I should throw them out—but she'd never once bought me anything new.

The books on the shelf were all related to my work. She never touched them.

A slightly outdated DSLR camera. I'd wanted to document our life together, but I'd rarely had the chance to photograph her.