The first text comes through while I'm chopping vegetables for dinner. *He says your name when he comes.* I stare at the screen, my knife frozen mid-slice. Unknown number. My thumb hovers over the delete button, but then the second message arrives. *Want to hear it?* The video starts playing before I can stop it. The sound hits me first—Derek's voice, rough and breathless. Then the image resolves: my husband's face, eyes closed, mouth open. The angle is from below, looking up at him. His hands grip something—someone—out of frame. "Maya," he gasps. "God, Maya." Except I'm standing in our kitchen. And that's not me underneath him. The phone slips from my hand, clatters against the cutting board. The video keeps playing, sound bleeding into the quiet of our home. I lunge for it, fumble with the volume button until silence returns. My hands are shaking. Another text appears: *Eight months. Every Tuesday and Thursday when you think he's at the gym.* I sink onto the kitchen stool, the room tilting slightly. Tuesday and Thursday. Gym nights. When he comes home with damp hair and kisses my forehead and asks what's for dinner. *He tells me I'm tighter than you. That I make him feel young again.* The words blur. I blink hard, force them back into focus. *My name is Jade, by the way. Since you'll want to know who's been fucking your husband.* The chicken breast I was preparing sits half-sliced on the cutting board, pink and raw. My stomach turns. I should call him. I should call Derek right now and— And what? Ask if it's true? The video is still open on my screen. His face. His voice. My name in his mouth while he's inside someone else. The front door opens. "Maya? I'm home!" Derek's voice, cheerful and familiar, coming from the entryway. I hear his gym bag hit the floor, his keys in the bowl on the console table. Every sound exactly the same as every other Tuesday for the past eight months. I look down at my phone. At the still frame of the video, frozen on his face. "Something smells good!" He appears in the kitchen doorway, hair damp, wearing the gray t-shirt I bought him for Christmas. "Is that chicken?" I don't move. Can't move. His smile falters. "Hey. You okay?" "Who's Jade?" The name comes out steadier than I expected. Almost calm. Derek goes completely still. The color drains from his face in a way I've never seen before—not pale, but gray, like something vital has been switched off inside him. "Maya—" "Who. Is. Jade." He reaches for the counter, his hand fumbling for support. His mouth opens but nothing comes out. He tries again, his breath shallow and quick. "I can explain. Please, just let me—" "You're in my kitchen." My voice sounds strange, distant. "With wet hair from the gym you didn't go to. About to eat the dinner I made. And you want to explain?" "It's not—" He stops, his jaw working. "How did you—" I hold up my phone. Don't say anything. Don't need to. He moves toward me and I step back, the stool scraping against the tile. He freezes. "Don't," I say. "Maya, please. She's not—you don't understand what she's—" "What she's what?" The laugh that comes out of me sounds broken. "What she's like? What she means to you? What she does for you that I don't?" "No." He's shaking his head, backing toward the wall. "No, that's not—she's lying. Whatever she told you, she's—" "I watched you fuck her, Derek." He hits the wall, his shoulders slumping against it. His face crumples, and for a second he looks like a stranger. Someone I've never seen before. "It was a mistake," he whispers. "A huge mistake. I'll end it. I'll—" My phone rings. We both look down at it. The screen lights up with an unknown number—the same one from the texts. Derek's eyes go wide. "Don't answer that." The phone keeps ringing. "Maya, please. Don't answer it. She's unstable. She's lying about everything—" I pick up the phone. Derek lunges forward. "No—" I swipe to answer and lift it to my ear. A woman's voice, younger than mine, bright and clear: "Hi, Maya. We need to talk about the baby."