The hotel called, politely reminding me that the condoms used last night were unpaid and had been charged to my membership card.

I was stunned. I'd been working late until midnight and hadn't set foot in any hotel.

I confronted my husband, the only person who knew my card code.

Nathan Phelps looked at me, bewildered. "Honey, that hotel costs over $10,000 a night. I'd never go there. It's probably a system error. Someone must have mistyped the card number. I'll file a complaint tomorrow."

Unconvinced, I called my best friend, who managed the hotel. "Tracy, check who Nathan was with at the hotel last night. I'm catching him red-handed."

...

Nathan Phelps's flimsy excuse was almost laughable.

When my best friend, Tracy Frye, became the hotel's manager and investor, she gifted me a lifetime VIP card for free stays as a birthday present, tied exclusively to my identity. No one else could use it.

Yet the hotel claimed I'd checked into the presidential suite last night and used the room's condoms.

I double-checked with the front desk, and they insisted it was me who had checked in.

Fury surged through me. When I'd once suggested trying the hotel, Nathan had snapped, "Isn't our house good enough? You're such a big spender. I’ve never seen anyone spend money like you do."

But it was my card, a gift from my friend. Why couldn't I use it? The more I thought about it, the angrier I got, driving straight to the hotel.

With the holiday approaching, the lobby buzzed with guests checking in. I waited nearly half an hour for the front desk to clear.

"I'm Alva Phelps," I said, struggling to keep my voice steady. "You called me this morning."

The receptionist glanced up, confused. "Ms. Phelps? But you're already back in your room. You just requested no housekeeping ten minutes ago and activated the do-not-disturb service."

I narrowed my eyes, realizing someone was brazenly using my name to stay there. My teeth clenched. "I'm the real Alva Phelps."

The receptionist eyed me skeptically. "Ma'am, if you don't have a reservation, please leave. We're very busy, and I can't deal with troublemakers. The lady checked in with her husband using a VIP card. I haven't seen her, but Mr. Phelps is a regular. There's no mistake."

Her words hit like a thunderbolt. My husband passed off as someone else's? The irony stung.

Just then, the elevator dinged, and Carrie Schmidt stepped out, dressed in a sleek, new-season Chanel suit. Around her neck was the $1.8-million diamond necklace I'd bought at a jewelry auction.

Carrie was an alumna who had just graduated from college.

The receptionist pointed at her, relieved. "That's Mrs. Phelps. The real one is here, so please leave and stop causing a scene."

Carrie's face paled at the sight of me, but she quickly plastered on a fake smile. "Alva, what a small world! You're staying here, too?"

I shook off her hand, my voice icy. "Care to explain why you're checked in under my name? Why are your condoms charged to my card? And why are you wearing my shoes and calling Nathan your husband?"

My voice echoed through the lobby, silencing the bustling crowd. All eyes turned to Carrie.

She glanced around, her eyes welling up. "What are you talking about? This hotel card was a gift from my husband because I've been working hard on business trips. He bought me these shoes, too."

She lowered her head, feigning shyness. "As for the condoms... Is it wrong to use them with my husband?"

Then, with a pitying look, she added, "Are you okay, Alva? Is your husband neglecting you? Should I recommend a therapist?"

The crowd erupted in whispers.

"Look at her, all frumpy. No wonder her husband doesn't want her."

"That membership costs $300,000 to start. She doesn't look like she can afford it."

"This place is too upscale for riffraff like her."

I'd thrown on casual clothes today, but I wasn't the mess they described. Ignoring the gossip, I sneered at Carrie. "I never realized you were such a smooth talker."

Turning to the receptionist, I demanded, "Did you verify her identity when she checked in?"

The latter stammered, "No, but Mr. Phelps is a regular, so..."

"So, you ignored protocol?" I snapped. "Your security is a joke."

The receptionist fell silent, unable to respond.

Carrie jumped in, playing the saint. "Alva, she's just a receptionist. Why make things hard for her? They say people stay at hotels that match their class. Stop making a scene here like a lunatic."

Her words implied I didn't belong. Then her phone rang, the screen flashing "Honey".

"Go on, answer it," I said coldly. "Put it on the speaker. Let's hear how Nathan spins this."

...

Carrie smirked, hitting the speaker and bursting into tears. "Honey, come over! Some crazy woman says I'm not your wife and wants to kick me out."

Nathan's voice roared through. "Who is this reckless person? Don't worry. I'm on my way."

So, in their minds, I was a crazy woman.

The crowd's looks turned to disdain, some even comforting Carrie. "Don't stoop to her level."

Carrie thanked them sweetly, then turned to me. "My husband is coming, and he has got a temper. Wise up and leave. This $300,000 card? He gave it to me without blinking. That's how much he loves me. If he sees you, who knows what he'll do?"

Her words, cloaked as concern, were pure provocation. I trembled with rage, itching to tear through her fake innocence.

Nathan arrived faster than I expected. He stormed in, his eyes flashing with fury when he saw me. Without a word, he shoved me aside and pulled Carrie into his arms.

"Don't be scared, honey. I'm here," he said, stroking her hair with a tenderness that burned my eyes.

The marble floor gleamed under the lights. His push sent me stumbling, my waist slamming into a sofa armrest. If not for that sofa, I'd have hit the ground.

Carrie tiptoed up, wrapping her arms around his neck for a long, sloppy kiss. She purred, "You're the best, honey. Tell this woman the truth. She won't believe me."

Nathan finally looked at me, his eyes devoid of guilt, filled only with disgust.

Nathan let go of Carrie and strode toward me, raising his hand to deliver a stinging slap across my face.

"You witch!" he barked. "Have some shame. You hinted at sleeping with me to secure your internship, and when I refused, you held a grudge. Now you're harassing my wife in public?"

I clutched my burning, swollen cheek, staring at him in disbelief.

At that moment, he acted like a stranger. Just hours ago, he'd played innocent, soothing me with his usual patience and telling me not to overthink.

Now, he stood here, twisting the truth without flinching and hitting me.

He'd always had two faces. Looking back, the signs were there. He'd light up for the latest gaming console I bought him, but scoff at my research breakthroughs, calling them scraps.

His care extended only to my bank account. Maybe he'd never loved me or bothered to know the real me.

...

A cold clarity washed over me, drowning my anger.

I lowered my hand, meeting his gaze with a calm that surprised even myself. "Nathan Phelps, repeat what you just said. Who am I? And who is she?"

A flicker of panic crossed his eyes, quickly replaced by defiance. "You're delusional! Am I not clear enough? She is my lawful wife. You're just a desperate intern who couldn't climb the ladder."

He sneered, scanning me head to toe. "Look at yourself! Pushing forty? Why would I marry someone like you? Have some self-respect!"

The crowd buzzed again.

"She can't find a man, so she's jealous of their happiness."

"Called it. She's got delusions. Creepy."

"Poor couple, stuck with this leech."

I stayed silent, watching their performance. Nathan was dead set on protecting Carrie, even if it meant dragging me through the mud.

But he was delusional if he thought he could rewrite reality with words.

I reached into my bag, pulling out my household registry and marriage certificate. "These prove who I am."

Nathan and Carrie froze, their faces stiffening. Carrie tugged at his sleeve, her eyes wide with panic.

Nathan lunged forward, snatching the documents from my hands and hurling them out the hotel's revolving door without a glance.

"Are you done?" he roared, his veins bulging. "Last time, you faked an ID to mess with me. Now you're forging official documents? Stop this harassment, or I'll call the police for fraud!"

The crowd's disdain turned to outright hostility. They echoed, "Call the police."

I had to admire Nathan's quick thinking, turning my evidence into fakes. At that moment, I wished our marriage certificate were fake.

Carrie, visibly relieved, nestled back into his arms, her voice dripping with malice disguised as kindness. "Your abusive husband must've driven you to a breakdown. I can recommend a great therapist or a divorce lawyer."

She emphasized the word "divorce", clearly eager to take my place as Mrs. Phelps.