Chapter 1

Three years ago, I brought Vivian into the company.

From intern to HR director, I spoke up for her every time she got promoted.

The layoff list had 23 people on it.

I was first. She put me there.

"Wendy, I really had no choice." Her eyes were red. "It came from upstairs."

I said nothing.

Her phone buzzed. An Ins message.

Pinned contact, marked with a red heart.

The avatar was a man’s profile.

A dark blue plaid shirt.

The one I had ironed for Henry myself last night.

Henry was my husband.

I put the list back in my bag and stood up.

"Vivian, the shirt on your pinned contact—"

"I ironed it last night."

Her face went white.

"Wendy! Wendy, wait!"

Vivian’s voice chased after me into the hallway, thick with tears.

I didn’t look back.

My heels clicked against the tile, one step at a time.

The elevator doors opened, and she caught up, grabbing my arm.

"You misunderstood. That person isn’t Henry…"

"Dark blue plaid shirt, with a tiny burn hole under the left chest pocket." I looked at her hand. "I accidentally scorched it while ironing last night."

Her fingers loosened.

"Wendy…"

"Vivian." I pressed the elevator button. "When you cry, your left eye goes red first, then the right one follows. You’ve used that trick on me for three years. It doesn’t work very well anymore."

The elevator doors closed.

I leaned against the wall and watched the numbers drop.

Basement one. Parking garage.

I got into the car and shut the door.

My phone lit up. It was a message.

Vivian sent me a voice note, but I didn’t open it.

Then another text came in: "Wendy, if you don’t believe me, you can ask Henry directly. He’ll explain."

I stared at that line for ten seconds.

Then I opened Henry’s Ins.

Last Wednesday, he posted a photo of coffee with the caption: "Working late into the night. A cup of coffee someone brought me felt extra warm."

That night, he told me he was at the office rushing a proposal. I hadn’t brought him any coffee.

The first comment was from Vivian: "You worked hard [heart]."

Henry replied with a smiling emoji.

I kept scrolling. A month ago, he said he was taking clients out to golf. He didn’t post any photos on Ins.

But Vivian did.

A beach, a sunset, a red bikini, with the caption: "Be nicer to me on vacation."

In the bottom right corner of the second photo, there was a man’s hand, with a wedding ring I knew very well on the ring finger.

The scratch was on the left side—Henry always used his left hand on the steering wheel when he drove, and that was where it had worn.

I exited Ins and started the car.

By the time I got home, it was 7:30.

Henry leaned out of the kitchen and smiled.

"You’re back? Why so early today?"

"Nothing to do, so I came home."

"Wash your hands and eat. The steak just came off the pan."

At the dinner table, he served me food and talked about work today.

"Remember that finance guy, Mark? He printed one extra zero on the report today. The boss thought our department’s revenue had multiplied by ten. He was happy for a whole hour…"

He laughed naturally.

I laughed too.

"By the way," he said, "did you iron that blue plaid shirt for me? I’ve got an important meeting tomorrow."

"It’s hanging in the third section of the closet."

"Thanks, babe." He reached over and squeezed my fingers.

His fingertips were warm.

After dinner, he went to wash the dishes.

I went into the bedroom and opened the closet.

The blue plaid shirt was hanging there. I took it down and brought it close to my nose.

Under the scent of laundry detergent, there was a very faint fragrance.

Bleu de Chanel.

I had given it to Vivian on her birthday three years ago.

"I love it so much!" She had hugged me and said, "Wendy, you are the best person in the world to me."

I hung the shirt back up.

Inside the pocket, my fingers found a crumpled receipt.

Blue Mountain coffee, two cups. One Americano, one less-sweet latte.

I drink Americano. Henry drinks Americano too.

Who was the less-sweet latte for?

The sound of water in the bathroom stopped, and he came out wrapped in a bath towel.

"Babe, I may come back a little late tomorrow. I’ve got a project to finish up."

"Okay."

"Don’t stay up too late." He kissed my forehead.

"Henry."

"Hmm?"

"How long has it been since you spent our wedding anniversary with me?"

His movement paused.

"Didn’t we last month…"

"Last month you said you had a sudden business trip."

"Right, that client couldn’t be pushed off…"

"Did that client wear a red bikini?"

His expression flickered, then returned to normal.

"What are you talking about? The client was a bald guy in his fifties."

"Oh."

"Why are you suddenly bringing this up?"

"Nothing. There’s a little hole under your shirt pocket. I accidentally made it while ironing. Don’t mind it."

"I don’t mind." He smiled. "You ironed it for me. Even the hole looks good."

The lights went out.

In the dark, his breathing gradually evened out.

My eyes stayed open.

At two in the morning, his phone lit up once.

A pop-up Ins message appeared on the screen, marked "Project Team - Kevin":

"Hubby, I already handled what happened last time. She won’t get a chance to turn it around. Don’t worry."

Followed by a kiss emoji.

Hubby. She. Turn it around.

The screen went dark.

Henry rolled over and draped an arm over my waist.

"Mmm… babe…" he mumbled indistinctly.

I didn’t move.

"Good night," I said.

No one answered.