My Parking Spot, His Secret Lover's Alibi

When I reach the underground parking lot, I find out that my husband, Victor Blake, has parked his car in a slanted manner.

Great, his car has taken over my parking slot again.

I call him and tell him to get his ass downstairs so that he can move the car out of my parking slot. While waiting for him, I come across a post on the Internet.

"I'm screwing the brains out of my mistress right now. What should I do to avoid getting discovered by my wife, who might be home anytime soon?"

The comment section goes nuts. Apparently, the original poster has left a like on one of the comments.

"Park your car in a way that it eats into your wife's parking slot. That way, she'll have to call you every time she gets home. Not only do you have time to clean up the scene and protect your mistress, but you also get to tell your wife in a righteous manner that you're reserving a parking slot for her."

I frown immediately. As soon as I tap on the WhatsApp chat, I hear someone knocking on my window.

Victor can be seen jiggling his car keys outside the car.

"What's with the rush? I did this just so I can reserve a parking slot for you, you know."

I froze when I heard what my husband said. The top comment I'd just read flashed through my mind, sending a sudden chill down my spine.

My husband, Victor Blake, got into the car. With practiced ease, he spun the wheel, backed up, and straightened it out.

Then, he parked my car just as effortlessly.

I stood to the side and watched him closely.

He looked completely relaxed, his expression open and calm. There wasn't a single thing out of the ordinary.

We had dated for four years and been married for four. He had always been wonderful to me—so wonderful I couldn't find a single flaw.

My mom died early, my dad remarried, and my stepmother saw me as a thorn in her side.

I had to scrape together my college tuition by working odd jobs.

Victor was my upperclassman in college. When he found out about my family, he spoiled me rotten.

After graduation, he worked himself to the bone to make money. He clawed his way up the corporate ladder, going from a low-level employee to running his own company.

The day he handed me the deed to our house, he held me tight and said, "Jane, you've suffered enough. From now on, you have me, and you have a home."

Could a man like that really be unfaithful?

"What are you thinking about? Let's go."

Victor locked the car and naturally threw an arm over my shoulder, guiding me toward the elevator.

I looked up at him and tested the waters. "Why do you always park crooked anyway? Is it really just to save a spot for me?"

"Of course." He nodded without a second thought.

His gaze was completely honest as he continued, "I'm never letting what happened back then happen again."

My heart stirred.

That year, during my sophomore year, a guy had cut in front of me in the cafeteria line. He shoved me right over, spraining my ankle.

Victor had just walked in and saw it. He lost his mind, rushing over and punching the guy right in the face. He almost got suspended for it.

With tear-filled eyes, I had applied ointment to his bruised lip. But he acted like it was nothing. In fact, he grabbed my hand and smiled like an idiot.

"Jane, I swear I'll protect you for the rest of my life. I won't let anyone take advantage of you, and I won't let anyone hurt you again."

The memory of that bruised, naive young man blurred into the sharp, suit-wearing man standing before me.

I took a deep breath, pushing down my anxiety.

Maybe I really was just overthinking it. I couldn't just doubt the husband I'd spent eight years with because of some random internet post.

Back home, I changed my shoes and walked into the bathroom. As I reached for a towel to dry my hands, I froze. There was a long strand of hair on the white tiled floor.

I bent down, picked it up, and looked at it in my palm. It was long and dyed a faint blonde.

In the mirror, my own hair reflected back—a natural, shoulder-length black.

This wasn't mine.

I looked around the bathroom. My eyes landed on the bottle of rose-scented body wash by the sink.

I had just opened that large bottle last month. I picked it up and gave it a shake. It was already nearly a third empty.

Tucking the strand of hair away, I went to find Victor.

The living room was empty, but his phone was sitting right there on the coffee table.

I bit my lip, hesitated for a second, and reached out for it.

I woke the screen and habitually swiped up. A passcode screen popped up.

My mind went completely blank, and my fingertips went cold.

He never used to lock his phone. He always said married couples shouldn't have secrets.

When exactly did he start keeping them?

"What are you doing with my phone?"