The Waterford crystal caught the candlelight as Marcus swirled his wine, the burgundy liquid casting shadows across his perfect jawline. My husband of seven years looked every bit the successful venture capitalist he was—tailored Tom Ford suit, Patek Philippe watch catching the light, dark hair artfully styled with just enough gray at the temples to suggest wisdom rather than age. "Hawaii," he said, not quite meeting my eyes. "Memorial Day weekend. The Kawamoto deal is finally moving forward." I kept my expression neutral, the way I'd learned to do at a thousand charity galas and investor dinners. Fork to mouth. Chew. Swallow. The asparagus tasted like ash. "Memorial Day," I repeated, reaching for my water glass. Baccarat, of course. Everything in our Pacific Heights mansion was the best money could buy. "That's our anniversary weekend." "I know, Sofia." Marcus set down his wine, finally looking at me with those deep brown eyes that had made me fall in love with him at a Stanford alumni mixer nine years ago. "Believe me, I tried to reschedule. But Kawamoto's only available that weekend, and if we don't close this deal, we're looking at losing twenty million in potential returns." Twenty million. The number hung in the air between us like smoke. I should have said something supportive. That's what the perfect wife would do. Sofia Chen, née Rodriguez, daughter of immigrant parents who'd built a small grocery store empire, now married to one of San Francisco's most eligible bachelors. I'd played the role flawlessly for seven years. But something in my chest cracked. "Of course," I heard myself say. "Business comes first." The relief that flooded his face should have made me feel better. Instead, it made my stomach turn. "You understand," he said, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand. His touch felt practiced, perfunctory. "This is why I love you. You get it." I smiled. Nodded. Took another bite of asparagus. What I understood was that Marcus had spent the last three months taking phone calls in his study with the door closed. That he'd changed his phone password. That he'd joined a gym and suddenly cared about his body fat percentage. That our sex life had dwindled from passionate to perfunctory to practically nonexistent. What I understood was that Memorial Day weekend in Hawaii sounded less like a business trip and more like a romantic getaway. "I'll miss you," I said, the lie smooth as silk on my tongue. After dinner, I retreated to my sanctuary—the home office Marcus had insisted I didn't need but I'd claimed anyway. While he disappeared into his study for another "urgent call," I opened my laptop. Marcus Chen. Kawamoto deal. Hawaii. I'd learned to be thorough. My father had taught me that when I was twelve, helping him audit the books at our family's stores. "Trust, but verify, mija," he'd said. "Numbers don't lie." Neither did internet searches. Three hours later, my eyes burned from staring at the screen. I'd found plenty about Marcus's firm, Chen Capital Partners. Plenty about their investments in tech startups and real estate developments. But nothing—absolutely nothing—about any Kawamoto deal. No press releases. No business filings. No LinkedIn mentions. I sat back in my leather chair, my heart hammering. Maybe it was confidential. Maybe it was too early to announce. Maybe I was being paranoid. Or maybe my husband was lying to me. My phone buzzed. A text from my best friend, Vanessa. *Lunch tomorrow? I have TEA.* I smiled despite myself. Vanessa had been my roommate at Stanford, the wild child to my responsible student. She'd warned me about Marcus from the beginning. *"He's too perfect," she'd said at our engagement party. "Nobody's that perfect, Sof."* *Can't tomorrow,* I texted back. *Dinner instead? My treat.* *You're on. Masa's at 7?* I confirmed and set down my phone. Masa's was our spot, an intimate Japanese restaurant in Nob Hill where we'd celebrated every major life event for the past decade. Through the wall, I could hear Marcus's voice, low and intimate. Laughing at something. I crept closer to the shared wall between our offices, pressing my ear against the cool plaster. "...can't wait either," he was saying. "Just a few more weeks." A pause. "No, she doesn't suspect anything. Sofia's too trusting." My blood turned to ice. "I've got it all planned out. After Hawaii, everything changes." I stumbled backward, my hand clamped over my mouth to keep from making a sound. The room spun. Seven years. Seven years of marriage, of building a life together, of supporting his career while putting my own ambitions on hold. Seven years of being too trusting. I made it to the bathroom before I threw up. An hour later, I was in bed when Marcus slid in beside me, smelling of his expensive cologne and lies. "Love you," he murmured, kissing my temple. "Love you too," I whispered back. In the darkness, I stared at the ceiling and made a decision. If Marcus was going to Hawaii for Memorial Day weekend, so was I. He just wouldn't know it. ---