Ryan answered quietly, “Good. Once it’s signed, she won’t be able to touch it.”
Those words didn’t belong in a marriage.
Maya called my name from behind me. I forced a smile and waved, pretending nothing was wrong. We hugged. I wished her luck in London. My voice stayed steady, which scared me more than tears would have.
When I turned back, Ryan kissed the woman’s cheek. She rolled her suitcase toward the gate. Ryan checked his phone—and then finally saw me.
His expression shifted instantly into the warm, familiar mask of a devoted husband.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“Saying goodbye to a friend,” I replied sweetly.
He kissed my forehead. I let him. Because while he believed I was clueless, my phone—resting in my bag—had just recorded the last forty seconds of their conversation.
As we drove home, he chatted about traffic and meetings, never mentioning the airport. That confidence was its own insult.
Later that night, while he slept, I replayed the recording and made a list.
