Andrew ordered a whiskey neat. He slid his phone across the table, screen unlocked to show the messages. Tommy scanned them quickly, then raised his eyebrows. "She's not even careful. Marriott downtown, same room, different nights."
Andrew nodded. "I found a receipt in her purse. Three nights ago."
Tommy scribbled notes into a battered notebook. "And the guy?"
"Dr. Wesley Grant, orthopedic surgeon. Works at her hospital."
Tommy leaned back, muttering under his breath. "Figures. I've heard his name before. Divorced 6 months ago. Bad reputation. And let me guess, he's the type that thinks charm can cover rot."
Andrew's jaw tightened. "I don't care about his charm. I care about the fact that my wife, the woman I built a life with, has been sneaking around like a teenager."
Tommy's voice softened. "You need evidence before you make any moves. Photos, logs, receipts, the works. Because if this goes to court, you want the truth in your corner."
Andrew stared at the amber liquid in his glass. "I don't just want the truth. I want her to know she didn't just betray me. She underestimated me."
That night, when Lauren came home past midnight, Andrew lay awake, feigning sleep. She crept in smelling faintly of hotel soap, not her usual floral perfume, not the lavender lotion she always used before bed. Something cold, sterile, and foreign.
His pulse pounded, but he stayed still, memorizing every detail. When her breathing finally deepened, he carefully slid out of bed, picked up the second phone from his charger, and scrolled. The messages shattered him more than any collapse could: Dinner was perfect. You made me feel alive again. Can't wait for our next night together. You're nothing like him. Andrew's boring, predictable. You're thrilling, Wesley.
His throat tightened. The words weren't just casual flattery. They were venom. His wife wasn't only sleeping with another man. She was mocking Andrew, belittling the very qualities he had thought made their marriage strong: stability, dependability, safety.