Chapter 3: The Secret Hidden Behind My Husband’s Smile
I stared at the message until the words stopped looking real.
*I know what he did.*
My fingers went numb around my phone.
The room around me continued moving as if nothing had happened. My father laughed from the kitchen. Plates clinked against the sink. Andre stood in the living room, smiling at a story my father was telling.
A normal night.
A normal family dinner.
Except someone had just dropped a match into my entire life.
“Simone?””
My mother’s voice pulled me back.
I looked up.
She immediately saw my expression.
“What is it?””
I locked my phone.
“Nothing.””
Her face changed instantly.
Not anger.
Disappointment.
The same disappointment from earlier.
“Don’t do that.””
I looked away.
“I’m just tired.””
“Simone.””
I wanted to tell her.
I wanted to put the phone in her hand and say, Look. Someone else knows. Someone else sees what’s happening.
But fear grabbed my throat.
Because if this person knew about Andre, then how much did they know?
And why did they wait until tonight?
My mother reached for my hand.
“Who texted you?””
“An unknown number.””
“About what?””
I hesitated.
That was enough.
My mother’s expression hardened.
“Show me.””
Before I could answer, Andre called from the living room.
“Simone?””
My entire body stiffened.
My mother noticed.
She noticed everything.
“Go home if you want,” she whispered.
“But don’t pretend this isn’t happening.””
I slipped my phone into my pocket.
“I need to know who sent it.””
“Then find out.””
I looked at her.
“What if I don’t like the answer?””
My mother held my gaze.
“Then you finally stop protecting the person who hurt you.””
I didn’t respond.
Because deep down, I knew she was right.
But knowing something and accepting it were two completely different things.
The drive home was silent.
Not peaceful.
Silent.
There was a difference.
Andre drove with both hands on the wheel this time.
He usually liked to drive one-handed, relaxed, like he owned every road he traveled.
Tonight, he was tense.
I could feel it.
I kept my phone in my lap.
The message sat there, unopened.
Not because I hadn’t seen it.
Because I was afraid of what would happen if I answered.
“You were acting strange tonight,” Andre finally said.
I looked out the window.
“I was tired.””
“No.””
His voice was sharper.
“You were acting strange.””
I stayed quiet.
He glanced at me.
“Your mother said something to you.””
It wasn’t a question.
I looked at him.
“How do you know?””
His jaw tightened.
“Because I know you.””
A cold feeling moved through me.
“No, you don’t.””
The words slipped out before I could stop them.
Andre looked surprised.
Only for a second.
Then his expression changed.
“What does that mean?””
I stared ahead.
“It means you don’t know me anymore.””
The car became completely silent.
The streetlights flashed across his face.
For a moment, I saw the man I married.
The man who used to look at me like I was the most important person in the world.
Then he disappeared.
“You’re being dramatic.””
There it was.
The phrase he always used.
Dramatic.
Sensitive.
Overreacting.
Anything except hurt.
“I’m not.””
“Yes, you are.””
“No, Andre.””
My voice shook.
“I’m not.””
He gripped the steering wheel tighter.
“You want to do this right now?””
I swallowed.
“Do what?””
“Make me the villain.””
The word hung between us.
Villain.
I almost laughed.
Because he said it like it was an accusation.
Like I was the one who had created this.
“I didn’t make you anything.””
He pulled into our driveway.
The engine stayed running.
Neither of us moved.
Then he turned toward me.
“You need to understand something.””
I waited.
“When we walk through that door, this stays between us.””
I looked at him.
“What stays between us?””
His eyes narrowed.
“Don’t start.””
“No.””
My voice became stronger.
“No, say it.””
He stared at me.
“The argument.””
The argument.
That was what he called it.
Not what happened.
Not what he did.
An argument.
Like we had both played a part.
Like I had somehow ended up with a bruise because we both lost control.
“You mean the part where you hurt me?””
His face changed.
A warning.
“Lower your voice.””
I almost couldn’t believe it.
We were sitting in our driveway.
In the dark.
And he was still more worried about being heard than what he had done.
I opened the door.
“Where are you going?””
“Inside.””
“We’re not finished talking.””
I stepped out.
“Yes, we are.””
Inside the house, everything looked exactly the same.
The couch where we watched movies.
The pictures from our honeymoon.
The framed wedding photo where we were smiling so brightly that nobody would ever guess what happened years later.
I walked past it.
For the first time, I didn’t see a happy couple.
I saw a stranger.
I went upstairs and locked myself in the bathroom.
My hands shook as I opened the message again.
I typed:
*Who are you?*
I stared at the screen.
Then deleted it.
I typed:
*How do you know my husband?*
Deleted.
Finally, I sent:
*What do you know?*
The response came almost immediately.
Too quickly.
Like they were waiting.
*I know this isn’t the first time.*
My heart stopped.
I sat down on the closed toilet seat.
This wasn’t the first time?
The words repeated in my mind.
I had spent months convincing myself it was an isolated moment.
A mistake.
A terrible night.
Something that would never happen again.
But someone out there knew.
Someone knew there was a pattern.
Another message appeared.
*Check the drawer in his office. The one he thinks you never open.*
I stared at it.
Andre’s office.
I had barely entered that room in years.
Not because he told me not to.
Because somehow, I had learned not to.
His work was his space.
His privacy.
His territory.
That was what he always said.
My phone buzzed again.
*You deserve to know who you married.*
I looked toward the bathroom door.
The house was quiet.
Too quiet.
Andre was downstairs.
Probably pretending everything was normal.
Probably already planning tomorrow’s version of us.
The happy couple.
The perfect marriage.
I stood up.
My legs felt weak.
But I walked out anyway.
I moved down the hallway slowly.
Past our bedroom.
Past the pictures.
Past all the memories I once thought meant something.
Until I reached his office door.
The door was closed.
I reached for the handle.
Then stopped.
A thousand thoughts rushed through my head.
What if I found nothing?
What if I found something?
Which one scared me more?
I opened the door.
The room smelled like Andre.
His cologne.
His coffee.
His expensive leather chair.
Everything organized.
Everything controlled.
I turned on the lamp.
His desk sat perfectly clean.
Almost too clean.
I walked toward the drawers.
The first one had papers.
Bills.
Work documents.
Nothing.
The second one had notebooks.
Pens.
Nothing.
My hand moved to the third drawer.
The drawer in the message.
It was locked.
I froze.
Andre never locked his office drawers.
Not that I knew of.
I stepped back.
My heart started beating faster.
Then I heard something.
A sound behind me.
A floorboard.
I turned around.
The office doorway was empty.
But the hallway light had turned on.
Someone was standing there.
Watching me.
“Simone?””
Andre’s voice echoed through the house.
I couldn’t move.
He stepped closer.
“What are you doing in my office?””
I looked at him.
At the man I had loved.
At the man I thought I knew.
And for the first time, I wondered if the person who sent that message wasn’t trying to scare me.
Maybe they were trying to save me.
Andre’s eyes moved from my face to the locked drawer.
Then back to me.
And his expression changed.
Because he knew exactly what I was looking for.
“You got a message, didn’t you?””
My blood went cold.
May you like
I whispered:
“How did you know?””
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