The Man in His Phone

The wine bottle was nearly empty, and it wasn't even nine o'clock. Me and Michael sat together as I watched him pouring the last drops into his glass, his third of the evening.

The slight tremor in his hand hadn't disappeared since our anniversary dinner two weeks ago.

"Do you think we should open another?" I asked, gesturing toward the empty Cabernet bottle.

Michael startled slightly, as if he'd forgotten I was there across our dining table. "What? No, I'm fine." He glanced at his phone for what must have been the twentieth time that hour.

"Are you expecting a call?" I tried to keep my voice casual, but the question hung heavy between us.

"Just checking the time," he said, though the ornate wall clock I'd sculpted for our first anniversary hung prominently on the wall behind him.

I nodded, pretending to accept this obvious lie.

Since that night at Bellini's, I'd started cataloging changes in my husband like an artist studying a subject: the new hollows beneath his cheekbones, the constant checking of his phone, the way he'd begun locking himself in his home office until late into the night. I could hear him sometimes, pacing back and forth, his footsteps a restless metronome counting out my growing anxiety.

"The Westridge project must be really stressful," I ventured, offering him the excuse he seemed to need.

"Hmm? Yeah, it's... complicated." Michael drained his glass and stood abruptly. "I should review some blueprints before tomorrow's meeting."

I watched him retreat to his office, noting how his shoulders curved inward, as if bearing an invisible weight. The door closed with a soft click, followed by the unmistakable sound of the lock turning.

Later that night, I lay awake beside Michael's sleeping form. His breathing was uneven, troubled even in sleep. I turned to study his face in the dim light filtering through our bedroom curtains. Who was this man I'd married? The question felt both ridiculous and terrifyingly valid.

Michael's phone buzzed on his nightstand. Without thinking, I reached for it, but it stopped before my fingers made contact. The screen illuminated briefly with a notification: "Daniel - 1 new message."

My heart stuttered. There it was again. Daniel.

---

"He's definitely hiding something," I said, stirring my latte absently. The café buzzed with mid-morning energy, but the corner table Simon and I occupied felt like an island of conspiracy.

Simon leaned forward, his expression concerned. "Have you asked him directly about this Daniel person?"

"I tried. He said Daniel was a consultant on the Westridge project." I sighed, remembering Michael's too-casual dismissal. "But when I mentioned stopping by his office to meet him for lunch, Michael practically had a panic attack."

"That doesn't sound like a normal work relationship," Simon said, his dark eyes thoughtful. He'd been Michael's friend before becoming mine, but lately, Michael had been avoiding him too—canceling our usual couples' dinners with vague excuses.

"I hate to ask this," Simon continued, lowering his voice, "but have you considered that he might be... involved with someone?"

The question hit me like a physical blow, though I'd been circling the same suspicion for days. "You mean an affair?"

"It would explain the secretive behavior, the mysterious calls..."

"With a man named Daniel?" I hadn't considered that angle before. The possibility that Michael might be questioning his sexuality added another layer of complexity to my growing confusion.

"It happens," Simon said gently. "People sometimes discover aspects of themselves years into a marriage."

I stared into my coffee, watching the cream swirl in abstract patterns. "I don't know what to believe anymore. But I need answers."

"I might be able to help," Simon offered cautiously. "I have some experience with data recovery and security. If you wanted to check his emails or financial records..."

"You mean hack into his accounts?" The suggestion shocked me, though not as much as it should have. "That feels wrong."

"What's wrong is him keeping secrets that are clearly tearing you apart," Simon countered. "Allison, you look like you haven't slept in weeks."

I touched my face self-consciously, aware of the shadows beneath my eyes. "I just need to know what I'm dealing with. If he's in love with someone else—man or woman—I deserve to know."

Simon reached across the table and squeezed my hand. "Then let me help you find out."

I hesitated only briefly before nodding. "Okay. He has a meeting tomorrow morning. The apartment will be empty."

As I agreed to Simon's plan, a small voice in the back of my mind whispered that once some lines were crossed, there was no going back. But the alternative—continuing to live in this limbo of suspicion and fear—seemed unbearable.

I had no idea that what we would discover would be far worse than any affair I could have imagined.