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

I launched into shop talk, grateful for the distraction. Emma touched my arm, a gesture of solidarity that once would have felt comforting, but now seemed hollow.

After dinner, as we drove home in silence, Emma reached over and placed her hand on my thigh. “You were quiet tonight,” she observed. “Everything okay?”

“Just tired,” I lied.

“Big presentation tomorrow.”

She nodded, accepting the explanation without question. “Want to take a bath together when we get home? I could give you a massage.”

The thought of her hands on me, hands that had been on him, made my skin crawl, but I could not let it show.

“Rain check. I really should review my notes for tomorrow.”

A flicker of relief crossed her face. “Of course.

I understand.”

I bet you do, I thought. You understand perfectly. The evidence piled up quickly.

Photos of them entering and exiting various hotels. Timestamps that corresponded with Emma’s work events. Credit card statements showing room service charges for two at the Warwick, the Brown Palace, and the Four Seasons.