Chapter 2

The dawn light slowly brightened. Andrew's arm was still draped across my waist.

I lay perfectly still, continuing to feign sleep. My eyes felt like sandpaper, but I didn't dare blink, afraid the tears would fall.

Seven o'clock sharp. The alarm went off. Andrew rolled over to turn it off, pressing a kiss to my forehead. "Morning, baby."

"Morning." My voice came out frighteningly hoarse.

"What's wrong with your voice?" He frowned.

"Probably the AC was too low."

At breakfast, I watched his every move. The way he sliced the bread, the slight furrow of his brow while drinking coffee, his unconscious habit of twisting his ring while reading the Wall Street Journal... Did the man in the livestream have the same little mannerisms?

"Jules?" Andrew's voice pulled me back to reality.

"Just thinking about the wedding dress." I mechanically shoved a forkful of scrambled eggs into my mouth.

"Don't wear yourself out." He stood up, putting on his suit jacket. "Might have to work late again tonight."

"The Hartman case again?"

"Yeah, almost wrapped up." He kissed me.

The scent of cologne hit my nostrils—the familiar woody notes, without last night's cloying vanilla musk.

"Love you." Andrew grabbed his briefcase and left.

The moment the apartment door closed, I collapsed in the chair. The image of those three scars burned in my mind like a brand.

The entire day was torture. At the firm, I stared blankly at architectural blueprints, only one thought echoing in my mind: Tonight at nine, I'll have answers.

Eight PM, my phone buzzed.

Andrew's text: [Baby, working late tonight. Don't wait up.]

I stared at the screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

[Okay, don't work too hard.] I replied.

Nine o'clock sharp, I opened that damned website.

Tonight's video quality was clearer. I frantically took screenshots—those three scars, every detail matching perfectly with my memory.

I kept watching, trying to convince myself this was just a coincidence. Until the camera swept across the man's left hand—

That Claddagh ring.

My breathing stopped. The heart design, traditional Irish pattern, "J&A" engraved on the inner band.

My engagement gift to Andrew. All self-deception crumbled instantly.

My trembling fingers continued capturing screenshots. Then the woman in the frame stretched lazily, revealing a small phoenix tattoo on her right ankle.

My heart nearly stopped. Last August, I'd gone with Tessa to Newbury Street to get it done.

Andrew and Tessa. My fiancé and my maid of honor, my best friend, the one who'd been with me through the darkest days of chemo.

10:15 PM, the livestream ended. I sat paralyzed on the bed, phone shaking in my hands.

10:30 PM, the sound of keys turning.

"Jules?" Andrew called from the foyer, seeing the living room light still on. "Why are you still up?"

"Couldn't sleep." I struggled to make my voice sound normal.

"Sorry baby," he walked over, loosening his tie, "my back was killing me, so I decided to work from home. Video conferences work just as well from anywhere."

"Your back hurting again?" I asked with concern, my heart pounding like a drum.

"Yeah, probably from sitting too long." He rubbed his shoulders, starting to unbutton his shirt.

"Want me to... give you a massage?" I heard myself say.

Andrew paused, looking at me with surprise. "You know how to massage?"

"Learned from YouTube," I forced a smile, "been watching some videos since you've been complaining about your back."

"Really?" A flash of tenderness crossed his eyes. "My baby's so thoughtful."

"Lie down first, I'll get the body lotion."

I fled to the bathroom, gasping for air at the sink.

Stay calm, Juliette. This is your chance.

I splashed water on my face and walked out with the lotion. Andrew was already lying face-down on the bed, his bare back gleaming under the lamp light.

My hands touched his shoulders, the familiar sensation making my stomach clench. Fighting back nausea, my fingers began to move.

"A bit lower... yes, right there." Andrew hummed contentedly.

My breathing stopped abruptly.

Five centimeters above the right hip bone—a circular scar, clearly visible, edges slightly reddened. My trembling fingers traced the outline, every inch perfectly matching the screenshot I'd just taken.

"Turn over," I heard myself say, "let me work on your lower back."

Andrew complied. On the left side, slightly lower, the second scar stood out starkly, darker in color. Then on the right side of the tailbone, the third one, with a slight indentation.

Position, size, even the shape of the scar edges... all identical.

"What's wrong?" Andrew suddenly grabbed my hand. "You're shaking."

I jerked my hand back, heart pounding. "It's... nothing, maybe a bit cold."

"Come here." He pulled me into his arms. "Let me hold you."

I stiffened in what used to be the safest embrace, my stomach churning violently. The familiar cologne that once comforted me now reeked like poison.

"Jules, are you sure you're okay?" Andrew stroked my hair. "You've been off since last night."

"Just wedding stress." I buried my face in his chest, not daring to meet his eyes.

"Don't put too much pressure on yourself." He kissed the top of my head. "Get some sleep if you're tired."

Ten minutes later, Andrew's breathing became steady. I carefully moved his arm away and padded barefoot to the bathroom, locking the door behind me.

My reflection looked even more haggard than this morning. Dark circles like two pits, lips completely bloodless.

I slumped onto the cold tiles, opening my phone gallery. The screenshots were still there—each one like a knife cutting into my heart.

I zoomed in on the ring screenshot. The Claddagh ring's heart design was crystal clear. Then the tattoo photo—every feather of the phoenix exactly as I remembered.

I scrambled up, rushing to the toilet to dry heave. Nothing but bitter bile.

Three AM, I tiptoed into the study. Andrew's MacBook Pro sat quietly on the desk. I knew the password—our anniversary date.

How ironic.

The online banking page loaded. Credit card statements, searching for "Hotel."

My heart stopped.

Last Wednesday, $3,500, Presidential Suite. That day Andrew said he was at M&A negotiations in New York.

My trembling fingers continued scrolling. Cape Cod Marina yacht rental, $7,500. Cartier jewelry, $12,000. Every charge unknown to me.

Cartier? He bought Tessa jewelry?

I opened the Outlook calendar, cross-referencing.

First livestream date: "NYC M&A negotiations—all day"

Second livestream date: "Dinner with Japanese clients"

Tonight: "Deloitte team working late"

Every lie perfectly aligned.

"Fuck." I swore for the first time in my life.

Three years. Three years of a relationship built on the "destiny" of a bone marrow transplant. He was my lifesaver, the angel who gave me a second chance at life.

And now, the angel had revealed his demonic face.

My phone suddenly buzzed, screen lighting up.

Andrew's text: [Baby, where are you? The bed's getting cold.]

I stared at the message, suddenly wanting to laugh. The bed's cold? Because one person is missing, or because he just came back from another bed?

Quickly deleting all browsing history, I took a deep breath to calm myself.

[In the bathroom, coming right back,] I replied.

Standing before the mirror, looking at my pale face. Just days ago, I was excited about the wedding. The dress, the bouquet, the vows—everything was so perfect.

Now, the perfect bubble had burst.

But I couldn't break down. Not yet.

I needed to know why. Why Tessa? Why livestream it? Who sent that anonymous link?

Most importantly—how deep did this deception go?

I washed my face, put on my sweetest smile, and pushed open the bedroom door.

"Sorry, honey." I slipped under the covers, initiating a kiss on Andrew's lips. "I'm back."

His lips had an unfamiliar taste. Was it Tessa's lipstick?

Andrew pulled me close, murmuring in my ear, "I love you, Jules."

"I love you too," I said, fingernails digging deep into my palms.