My Wife Thought Room 317 Was Her Secret… Until I W…

“What time is the Morgan portfolio review tomorrow?” I asked casually. “Ten-thirty,” she said, checking her phone. I watched her face, looking for any reaction to the message.

There was nothing. No panic. No pause.

No flicker of guilt. She was good at this, better than I would have expected. “I might be home late tonight,” she added.

“The gala committee meeting might run long.”

I nodded. “No problem. I’ll grab dinner with Tom.”

That was the first lie I had ever told her.

I had no plans with Tom. Instead, I drove downtown and parked across from the company where Emma worked as an event coordinator. At 6:45 p.m., she emerged looking polished and professional in her blazer and pencil skirt.

She did not head toward the parking garage where her car was waiting. Instead, she walked three blocks and entered the lobby of the Warwick Hotel. I sat in my car for twenty minutes, my knuckles white on the steering wheel.