EVELINE POV:

I looked at my reflection in the mirror.

The black silk of the La Perla slip I'd debated buying for three months felt like a second skin. Its lace edge was a stark, delicate contrast against my pale thighs.

Tonight was our second wedding anniversary.

Everything will be okay, I told myself.

A deep breath. My fingertips grazed the Tom Ford lipstick on the vanity, a shade of red I'd barely touched. I imagined the look of surprise on Shane's face, and my heart gave a hopeful, frantic flutter.

The sound of a key turning in the front door lock made me jump.

He was home.

I quickly switched off the main bedroom lights, leaving only the single, dim lamp on the nightstand. The air instantly felt thick with manufactured romance. I heard the thud of his things hitting the floor in the living room, then footsteps heading my way.

I bit down on my lower lip, a nervous habit I'd had since childhood.

Shane pushed the door open, bringing a gust of Chicago's winter chill with him. He leaned his expensive Bauer hockey bag against the wall, the slight bump echoing in the quiet room.

He didn't even look at me.

He just shrugged off his coat, tossing it onto a chair.

"Why are the lights off?" he asked, his voice laced with impatience.

My heart sank.

His eyes finally landed on me, scanning the carefully chosen slip. There was no flicker of fire, none of the heat I had craved. Just a cold appraisal, like I was an object he was inspecting for flaws.

I summoned my courage and walked toward him, my bare feet silent on the plush carpet. I tried to wrap my arms around him from behind, the way I used to.

He sidestepped me. An instinctive, almost imperceptible flinch.

My arms froze in mid-air. The heating was on full blast, but a chill crept up from the soles of my feet and spread through my entire body.

He turned, his handsome face tight with exhaustion and annoyance. "Eveline, I'm tired. I had a long day of practice."

"I know," I said, my voice trembling slightly. I forced a smile. "I just... it's our anniversary, Shane."

I gestured toward the nightstand. A bottle of his favorite whiskey and two crystal glasses sat waiting. Two years ago, we had exchanged rings in a warm, whiskey-fueled haze.

His gaze flickered over the glasses, utterly unmoved. "Anniversary? Oh."

It was a flat, dead sound. Like I had just reminded him to take out the trash.

He walked past me, straight to the bathroom, grabbing his phone. The screen's cold blue light illuminated his indifferent profile. "I need to return a few calls. My agent's been blowing me up."

I stood there, a statue in black silk, and watched him close the bathroom door. I could hear his voice, lower now, but distinctly warmer, gentler, than it had been with me.

I caught fragments.

"...of course, baby..."

"...soon as I handle things here..."

"...you miss me too?"

Every gentle word was a needle, piercing my heart. Who was he talking to?

My body went cold. The expensive silk slip suddenly felt like a clammy, reptilian skin against my own.

I walked slowly back to the mirror and stared at the ridiculous woman looking back at me. The makeup, the lingerie—it was all a joke.

I raised a hand to wipe away the lipstick, but it was shaking too much.

The bathroom door opened. Shane walked out, already changed into sweatpants, his face a mask of casual indifference.

He didn't even glance at me as he went straight to the closet and pulled out a separate comforter.

"What... what are you doing?" I asked, my voice hoarse.

"I'm sleeping in the study tonight," he said without turning around. "Got an early skate tomorrow, don't want to wake you."

It was the same excuse he'd used for the last two months. We hadn't shared a bed in weeks.

He clutched the comforter and walked out of the master bedroom without a backward glance. He even had the decency to close the door gently behind him.

The soft click of the latch was the sound of my last hope dying.

My legs gave out, and I crumpled onto the cold floor. The tears I'd been holding back finally broke free, hot and silent.

I curled into a ball, the freezing silk a poor comfort for my equally cold body.

I don't know how long I cried. Long enough for the tears to dry on my face, my skin pulling painfully.

I lifted my head and looked at the empty king-sized bed, at the two untouched glasses of whiskey on the nightstand.

A sharp pain, a mix of humiliation and heartbreak, seized me.

Slowly, I got to my feet. I walked to the nightstand and picked up one of the glasses. The amber liquid swirled under the dim light, inviting and numb. I lifted it to my lips, but froze, my hand instinctively drifting down to my lower stomach.

No.

I set the glass back down with a sharp click, leaving it untouched. I didn't need alcohol to numb this pain; I needed clarity.

I stared at the closed door to the study.

A crazy idea began to form in my mind.

I had to know who he was talking to. I had to know what was wrong with our marriage.

I couldn't live like this anymore.

EVELINE POV:

The morning sun sliced through the blinds, finding my bloodshot eyes. I hadn't slept. The space on the bed beside me was perfectly smooth, cold and untouched like a hotel pillow.

I sat up, my body stiff from a night spent curled in a miserable ball. The humiliation from last night was a raw, open wound.

In the living room, a note was propped against a cereal box. "Went to practice. Get your own lunch." The handwriting was a careless scrawl, a perfect match for his attitude toward me.

His hockey bag was gone. He treasured that bag, that equipment. He had forgotten his wife.

My eyes fixed on the closed study door. It used to be our space. Now it was his fortress. He always locked it, claiming it held team strategies, "locker room secrets."

"What happens in the room, stays in the room." He'd said it with a smile once, explaining the NHL code. The memory was now a bitter irony.

A powerful urge took hold of me. I had to get in there. I had to know what secrets it held.

I remembered the spare key ring hanging on a hook in the kitchen. My heart hammered against my ribs as I rushed to get it, my hands shaking.

Back at the study door, it took several tries to find the right key.

The lock clicked softly. The door swung open. The scent of his cologne and stale air hit me.

The room was neat. Shelves lined with trophies and commemorative pucks. It all looked so normal, so painfully ordinary that I started to doubt my own sanity.

I began to search, a frantic energy possessing me. I tore through drawers, file cabinets, flipped through books. Nothing. No pictures of another woman, no suspicious letters, no hotel receipts.

I collapsed into his leather office chair, feeling like a fool. Maybe I was just crazy.

Just as I was about to give up, my gaze fell on his laptop. Next to it sat an AirPods Pro charging case.

He used them for his call last night. My heart leaped.

A bolder, crazier plan formed in my mind. If I couldn't find physical evidence, I would listen for it.

I grabbed my phone and quickly mapped the nearest electronics store. A Best Buy downtown popped up, just a fifteen-minute drive away. I threw on clothes, grabbed my car keys, and bolted out the door.I felt like a spy on a mission. I needed the smallest, most discreet listening device I could find.

Wandering the aisles of Best Buy, I felt a strange mix of guilt and determination. I finally settled on a high-sensitivity audio bug disguised as a USB charging head, one that I could monitor remotely from my phone.

By the time I got home, my palms were slick with sweat. Shane would be back from practice in less than two hours.

I went back into the study, my purpose clear. I located the power strip under his desk, a tangled mess of cords and plugs. It was the perfect hiding spot.

Kneeling on the cold floor, my knees aching, I plugged the tiny device in. It looked just like any other forgotten accessory.

I pulled out my phone, downloaded the corresponding app, and watched as the screen confirmed: "Device connected. Signal strong."

I quickly erased any trace of my presence, pushed the chair back to its original position, and slipped out of the study, locking the door behind me.

I returned the spare key to its hook in the kitchen. Everything was back to normal. As if nothing had happened.

I sat on the edge of our bed in the master bedroom, my body drained of all strength.

Now, I was the one with a secret. The thought sent a strange, guilty shiver through me.

I didn't know what I was about to hear, but I knew one thing for sure. From the moment I plugged in that device, there was no going back for me and Shane.

I stared at the app's icon on my phone. It felt like Pandora's box.

All I could do was wait. Wait for him to return to that room, to that space where he felt completely safe.

Time crawled by. Every sound from outside the door made me flinch.

Finally, in the early evening, I heard him come home.

He gave his usual, brief greeting, then walked straight into the study and locked the door.

I put in my earbuds and opened the app.

After a faint crackle of static, I heard the squeak of his chair. And then, a woman's voice, sweet and coquettish, a voice I had never heard before.

"Shane, are you finally done? I missed you so much."

EVELINE POV:

The woman's voice, sickly sweet like a cheap soda, filled my ears. My blood ran cold.

I heard Shane chuckle. A genuine, happy sound I hadn't heard in what felt like a lifetime. He never sounded that happy, that light, when he spoke to me.

"What's wrong, baby? Getting impatient?" His voice was full of a playful affection that was now reserved only for her.

My stomach twisted. He was using the same pet name he used for our golden retriever.

I clamped a hand over my mouth, terrified a sound might escape and betray me.

"Of course I'm impatient," the woman, who I would later learn was named Amber, purred on the other end. "You have no idea how boring Chicago nights are without you."

They were in the same city. The realization was a block of ice dropped into my chest.

I heard Amber continue, "Is your wife suspicious? That boring housewife."

A jolt went through me. Boring housewife. So that's what I was to them. I had given up my design career in New York, moved to Chicago for him, managed his entire life, and this was my title.

Shane didn't even defend me. He just let out a short, dismissive laugh. "Her? She doesn't know a thing. All she does is revolve around me. She's easy to handle."

His voice was dripping with contempt. He spoke about me like I was a stupid, inconvenient pet.

Tears streamed down my face, silent and hot, landing on the back of my hand. This was the man I had loved for five years.

I listened as they planned their next getaway. Miami beaches. A suite in Vegas. All the places he had once promised to take me.

They flirted shamelessly, their words a filthy script of what they wanted to do to each other. I was a forced audience to their pornographic play, with no escape. Every word was a knife, twisting.

Amber giggled. "Honey, do you remember last time? On the sofa in your study... If your wife ever found out, she'd probably die, right?"

My eyes shot toward the study door. The Italian leather sofa I had picked out myself now seemed disgustingly tainted.

He had brought his mistress into our home. Into the sanctuary I had built for him.

A wave of suffocating nausea hit me like a physical blow. I didn't move. I didn't take the earbuds out. I forced my breathing to stay dead silent, my fingernails digging into the mattress until they bent backward. I swallowed the bile rising in my throat and forced myself to listen to every filthy, unvarnished syllable.

I heard Amber ask, "So, when are you going to tell her? I don't want to be a secret forever."

My heart pounded in my throat. Yes, Shane. When?

A long silence stretched on, each second an eternity.

Then, he spoke. "Soon, Amber. Just give me a little more time. It's not the right time."

He mentioned his contract. His public image. The team's "morality clause." As a top-paid star player, he explained, any negative press could jeopardize his endorsements and his next big deal.

It wasn't about me. It was never about me. Our marriage, my feelings—they were just variables in his business calculations.

I let out a choked, humorless laugh that turned into a sob. I once thought our love was priceless. In his world, everything had a price tag.

"Fine," Amber said, her voice petulant but yielding. "Can you come over tonight? The usual place."

"No," Shane said immediately. "I have to be careful. She's... been acting a little strange."

My heart stopped. Did he know?

"What do you mean?" Amber asked, her tone suddenly sharp.

"Nothing. Probably just my imagination," Shane said vaguely. "Anyway, let's not meet up for a bit. I'll let you know when it's safe."

They exchanged a few more nauseating pleasantries and then hung up. I heard a long sigh from the study.

I was about to take out the earbuds, thinking the torture was over, when I heard the phone in the study ring again.

Shane answered.

"Mom, it's me," he said. "Yeah... about Eveline being pregnant, I have a plan."