By the time I got home from my business trip, it was already past midnight—and my husband wasn't there.

A woman's blouse lay on the sofa. It wasn't mine.

I called him. He said he was working late at the office.

I didn't bother with pretense. "Whose blouse is on the sofa?"

His tone was light and casual. "Who else would it be? It's obviously a gift for you. Try it on."

Suspicious, I picked it up and held it against myself. The blouse was clearly one size too small.

"Honey, this is a size S. I always wear M."

My husband owns a clothing company. He handles all my clothes. He's even used my measurements to design women's wear. There's no way he doesn't know my size.

On the phone, he froze for half a second, then spoke as if piecing something together. "This is a new women's line I'm launching. I ordered custom pieces for you and my sister. I must've grabbed the wrong one. I'll switch it tomorrow."

A moment later, his voice softened with exhaustion. "Babe, you've been gone for days. Without you, I feel so tired… I miss you so much…"

It was already late into the night. Hearing him sound vulnerable—something he rarely did—made my chest tighten. I blamed myself for overthinking.

But the moment I hung up, realization struck.

His sister has the same build as me. She always wears size M.

The craftsmanship of the blouse was exquisite—exactly the kind of work Marc Maxwell would make himself. But the feel of the fabric beneath my fingertips stirred doubt in my chest.

My sister-in-law and I were nearly identical in size. We both wore a size M—no exceptions. So why would this be an S?

Could he really have mistaken the size?

I reconsidered, then dismissed the thought almost immediately. Marc was a professional fashion designer and the person who understood us both best. How could he possibly make an S-sized blouse for either of us?

Unless… it wasn't made for me—or for his sister.

Then who was it for?

The moment the thought surfaced, it wrapped around my mind like wild vines, tightening with every second.

Forcing myself to calm down, I opened the pet-monitoring app on my phone. I'd been away on business for a month, and the thing I worried about most was our cat. So I had installed cameras in both the living room and the bedroom.

I dragged the timeline back to the day I left.

Besides the housekeeper who came at scheduled times to feed the cat and clean the litter box, no one else had entered the apartment. No visitors. No strangers.

It seemed I was overthinking. He must have been overwhelmed from work—nothing more.

I closed the surveillance app, tossed the blouse onto the sofa, and forced myself to stop spiraling.

Maybe the truth was simple. Maybe I was just exhausted and imagining things.

I took a shower, then leaned back on the sofa and drifted off without realizing it.

Early the next morning, the sound of the door opening jolted me awake.

Marc had returned. His face was drawn with fatigue, and he froze for a moment when he saw me.

"Babe, why are you asleep on the sofa? You scared me," he said as he changed his shoes.

"I wanted to surprise you." I stood up and took his bag. "Have you eaten? Want me to make you something to eat?"

"No, I ate at the office." He rolled his shoulders, then walked to the sofa—and spotted the blouse.

"Oh, I brought the one in your size back. Try it on and see if it fits."

I watched him for a few seconds, silent, before speaking as if casually.

"I just remembered… Isn't Vivienne about the same size as me? Since when did she start wearing size S?"

His smile froze.

That tiny pause made my heart sink again.

"Sigh…" He suddenly exhaled, his voice dropping. "You've been gone for a whole month and didn't spare a single thought for home.

"Vivienne was seriously ill recently. She was hospitalized for more than half a month—she lost so much weight. My company's been drowning in work, and after every shift, I had to rush to the hospital to take care of her. I was completely worn out.

"I must've measured her during that time, and my head just wasn't working. You two are about the same size, so I grabbed the finished piece and brought it home for you without thinking."

The more he spoke, the heavier his voice became, thick with exhaustion.

My heart clenched, guilt swallowing every trace of suspicion. I had been gone for an entire month, and as Vivienne's sister-in-law, I hadn't even called her once.

She'd been seriously ill, and I hadn't known a thing—yet here I was, doubting him over a blouse. What kind of wife did that make me?

"I'm sorry, honey. It's my fault," I said quickly. "I didn't know Vivienne was sick. I'll go with you to see her tomorrow."

"It's fine. You were working." His voice softened again. "I'm just tired and a little emotional. Go rest. I'm going to shower."

As I watched him walk into the bathroom, my emotions tangled painfully inside me.

I could only hope I really was overthinking everything.

Early the next morning, Marc drove me to the hospital.

When I pushed open the ward door, I froze.

Vivienne had lost an alarming amount of weight; she looked like a shadow of herself.

"Vera, you're back," she said weakly, offering me a faint smile.

Guilt surged through me so hard it almost choked me. I walked over, patted her shoulder, and put the gift basket I'd gotten her on her bedside table.

"You silly girl, why didn't you tell me you were sick? Rest well. If you want anything to eat, just tell me."

Vivienne grinned. "Only you spoil me like this."

Seeing how loosely her clothes hung on her made shame wash over me again. Right now, even an S would be too big for her.

Relief finally loosened my chest.

Just then, Marc's phone rang. He stepped into the hallway to answer it. I faintly heard him say, "Got it. I'll take care of it right away," before hanging up.

"Who was that?" I asked casually. "Something wrong at the company?"

He came back in, gathering his things as he replied, "My secretary. Some work issue."

My heart skipped.

I remembered his secretary as a steady middle-aged man. But the voice on the call had clearly been a young woman's.

My pulse tightened, though I kept my expression neutral.

"You changed secretaries? I thought Brandon was doing a good job."

"Oh, we're preparing to expand into women's wear," Marc explained naturally. "So I thought it'd be better to hire a female secretary—someone who used to model and actually understands the market. Last month you were away, and Vivienne was sick. She filled in and helped fit the samples."

A mischievous smile tugged at his lips. "What, are you jealous? If you don't like her, I'll tell her to leave right away."

With him putting it that way, pressing further would only make me look petty.

"It's not that." I waved him off. "It's work. I get it."

But despite the calm front, a small thorn lodged itself quietly in my heart.

That afternoon, I found an excuse to visit his company as an investor.

The moment I stepped into the design department, I saw the new secretary. She was young, beautiful, and tall. She radiated that effortless, youthful energy.

A few senior employees spotted me and greeted me warmly.

"Vera, welcome!"

I smiled and exchanged a few casual words.

"How's everything at the company lately? I heard we got a new pretty secretary for the women's line?"

A seasoned female designer chimed in with a laugh.

"Oh yes, Vera. That girl, Amy Wynwood, is sharp. She's helped Marc with plenty of things. And her figure's incredible, practically a walking mannequin. We've used her to try on a ton of samples. Saved us so much time."

Another chimed in, "Marc has a good eye. Ever since she joined, the women's line has been progressing much faster."

The more they praised her, the more uncomfortable I felt.

Still smiling, I walked into Marc's office and discreetly placed a small astronaut figurine with a hidden camera on his desk.

For the next few days, whenever I had a spare moment, I checked the surveillance feed. Everything appeared perfectly normal.

Amy rarely entered his private office. Most tasks were handled through the internal phone system.

Even when she did walk in to report something, she stood properly in front of the desk and left within minutes.

There was nothing inappropriate between them.

And in one sudden moment, shame crept up my spine.

At work, he was a decisive, intimidating CEO. At home, he was thoughtful, always telling me his schedule without needing to be asked.

His desk was covered with our wedding photos—him standing on my left, smiling brightly. He called whenever he had a spare moment, always checking in.

Was I really being too suspicious? Too insecure?

Yet the blouse kept circling in my mind like a weight I couldn't shake.

A fashion designer with an eye so sharp he could guess someone's measurements at a glance—

would he really mistake a size?

As the new women's line moved forward, Marc began working overtime even more frequently—sometimes not coming home until one or two in the morning.

He said he'd hit a bottleneck in the new collection's designs.

I told him not to overwork himself, but he only smiled and said he was fine.

Then another detail put me on alert.

After he came home, the scent of his body wash changed. We had always used cedarwood-scented products, yet for the past few days, he'd smelled like a sweet, cloying floral fragrance.

When I asked him about it, he brushed it off.

"The company bought new shower products for the break room. I shower there if I work late so I don't wake you."

The explanation was flawless, yet the unease inside me kept spreading like wildfire.

Another late night, he texted that he might have to stay up all night again and told me to sleep first.

I lay in bed, tossing and turning, and without thinking, opened the surveillance feed again.

The lights in his office were on, but his seat was empty.

Frowning, I slid the timeline back.

Just minutes earlier, a figure had flashed past the camera—quickly stepping into the blind spot of the interior office camera.

It was only a brief glimpse, but I was certain it wasn't Marc.

I shot upright, changed clothes in seconds, packed the chicken soup I'd been stewing into a thermos, and rushed out the door.

Fifteen minutes later, I was downstairs at his company building. Only his office on the entire floor was lit.

My heart hammered as I approached the door.

It wasn't locked. I pushed it open.

The room was empty.

How? I had clearly seen someone go inside!

I searched everywhere—the design department, the break room, the storage closet—every possible hiding place.

Nothing. No one.

Breathless, I returned to his office.

Then I heard the sound of fabric brushing, mixed with a man's muffled breathing. It sounded like it came from the corner of the room.

I stepped quietly toward the sound.

Up close, I noticed a narrow gap where a panel met the wall, faint light seeping through it.

My mind went blank. I grabbed the panel and yanked it open.

"Marc! What are you doing in here?!" I screamed.

Behind the panel was a small space—like a miniature dressing room.

And inside stood Marc, staring at me in shock, holding the arm of a mannequin. There wasn't another living soul in the room.

He stared at my furious expression, utterly baffled.

“Babe? What are you doing here?”