Chapter 2

His laptop opened with a quiet hum. No password. We'd always shared everything. Work emails, calendars, bank accounts. That was marriage, right? Trust.

My hands were shaking.

I opened his email first. The inbox loaded slowly, each second stretching out like hours. Maybe there was nothing. Maybe I was being paranoid. Maybe—

There. A folder labeled "Training - Zara."

My chest tightened.

It could be innocent. He was a trainer. She was a client. He probably had folders for all his clients. Professional. Organized. Nothing to worry about.

So why was my heart racing?

I clicked.

Three months of emails. Dozens of them. I scrolled through subject lines. "Tomorrow's session." "New program for you." "Great work today."

All professional. All normal.

But why free? The booking system showed every session marked as complimentary. Zero charge. I paid my trainers hourly. Jace knew that. So why was Zara getting free training? After hours. Always after hours.

I kept scrolling.

Then I saw it.

An email from two weeks ago. No subject line.

"Can't wait to see you tonight. Wear that thing I like 😏"

The laptop nearly slipped from my hands.

I read it again. And again. The words didn't change.

Wear that thing I like.

My phone slid off the bed. I didn't pick it up. I just sat there, staring at the screen, watching the cursor blink in the darkness.

The words started to blur.

I realized I was crying.

Five years. Five fucking years.

I'd found him working at a shitty gym in Newark, making twelve dollars an hour. Gave him a job. Trained him. Turned him into someone.

And this was how he repaid me?

I wanted to stop looking. Wanted to close the laptop and pretend I'd never opened it. Go back to bed. Wake up tomorrow and forget this ever happened.

But I couldn't.

I had to know.

I wiped my face and kept scrolling. More emails. More "sessions." I found one from last month with an attachment. A photo. Her in workout gear, posing in front of the mirror at FlexHer. My gym. My fucking gym.

His reply: "Looking good 🔥"

My stomach twisted.

I closed the email and opened my own laptop. FlexHer's security system. I had access to every camera. Every angle. Every timestamp.

I shouldn't do this. I knew I shouldn't. But my fingers were already typing, pulling up footage from last night. 8 PM. The gym should have been closed. Should have been empty.

But it wasn't.

There they were. Jace and Zara in the training studio. She was doing squats. He was standing behind her, hands on her hips, "correcting her form." That's what he'd call it. Form correction.

But his hands stayed there too long. Lingered. Moved.

She laughed at something he said. Threw her head back, her perfect ponytail swinging. He smiled. That smile. The one he used to give me.

They moved to the mirror. Stood side by side. She pulled out her phone and they posed together. His arm around her waist. Her body pressed against his.

He looked at her the way he used to look at me.

No. He looked at her the way he'd never looked at me. Not anymore. Not for a long time.

I fast-forwarded. They moved through the gym. More exercises. More touching. More laughing.

Then they walked toward the locker rooms.

My hands froze on the trackpad.

The camera showed them go in. Together. Into the women's locker room.

I checked the timestamp. They were in there for twenty minutes.

Twenty. Minutes.

When they came out, her hair was messy. His shirt was untucked.

I slammed the laptop shut.

The room spun. I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. My throat felt like it was closing up.

I stumbled out of bed and ran to the bathroom. Closed the door as quietly as I could. Turned on the fan to cover any sound.

Then I bent over the toilet and dry heaved.

Nothing came up. I hadn't eaten dinner. But my body wanted to purge something. Anything. Everything.

I gripped the sink and looked up at the mirror.

The woman staring back at me looked old. Tired. Used.

Is this what he sees?

Is this why he—

I slid down to the floor, pulling my knees to my chest. The tiles were cold against my skin. I was still wearing the La Perla. Expensive lingerie for a man who didn't want me anymore.

How long had this been going on? How many times had he come home to me after being with her?

The cold from the floor seeped into my bones.

I don't know how long I sat there. But slowly, something shifted.

The hurt was still there. But underneath it? Rage.

Cold. Calculating.

I stood up. Looked at myself in the mirror again.

The woman looking back wasn't broken.

She was angry.

I made a call.

"Paloma. I need you."