Chapter 2

At eleven that night, Sean stepped out of the shower, tossed his phone onto the nightstand, and rolled over toward the wall under the blanket.

Within five minutes, his breathing turned deep and rhythmic.

I lay awake in the dark, waiting twenty full minutes.

Then, I slipped quietly out of bed and picked up his phone.

The screen lit up directly to a SnapChat conversation with a user whose avatar had pink cat ears, saved under the nickname "Zoe."

I scrolled up three screens, my fingers turning cold as ice.

"Thanks for the boba tea today, Sean! The little bear cup is so adorable."

"Next time, I'll take you out for sushi. Didn't you say you've been craving it?"

"Won't your wife get mad, though?"

"She's just a stay-at-home mom. She doesn't have a clue, don't worry about her."

"Can we check out that new condo development this weekend? I heard their lofts are gorgeous!"

"Sure thing. I'll go with you."

I captured screenshots of every single message, sent them to my own phone, placed his phone right back where it was, and wiped off my fingerprints.

On Saturday morning, Sean claimed he had urgent overtime at the office, grabbed his car keys, and left.

Standing on the balcony, I watched his silver sedan pull out of the gate. He didn't head toward the downtown commercial district where his company was, but swung south.

What was in the south? The new development with the trendy loft showrooms.

My memories and reality aligned seamlessly.

Pulling back my gaze, I texted Megan: "Megan, can I drop by the lab this Monday to discuss the position?"

She texted back instantly: "The director said his door is open whenever you're ready. Just come!"

Next, I handled three crucial matters.

First, I took my ID and marriage certificate to the bank.

The printed statements laid everything bare:

Sean's paycheck was roughly twenty-five hundred a month. He transferred five hundred to me for groceries, and out of the remaining balance,

over seven hundred dollars had been spent on a PayPal account registered to "Zoe."

The transaction history dated back three months: bubble tea, retail orders, fresh flowers, designer cosmetics. It was an appalling trail.

He had whined to me that money was tight, pressuring me to pull Lucas out of 1-on-1 prep tutoring and stick him into a crowded mega-class. The three hundred dollars saved from that went straight into four luxury lipsticks for his intern.

I folded the financial records and slipped them into my tote.

Second, I visited my mother's place.

She was out in the garden trimming roses, looking surprised to see me.

"Why didn't you let me know you were coming? Have you eaten?"

I sat down beside her, choosing my words carefully.

"Mom, is my old condo still rented out?"

Mom's shears paused, and she turned to look at me.

That two-bedroom apartment had been bought fully in my name before marriage. It had been rented out, with the monthly rent going directly to Mom as supplemental allowance.

"Yes, but the lease is up next month. Why? Do you need it?"

"Yeah. Lucas and I might move in soon."

Mom set the shears down and studied my face for a long moment, her voice softening. "Did something happen between you and Sean?"

I didn't go into detail, merely giving a gentle smile. "Nothing I can't handle. I just need to secure an exit route for myself."

Mom remained silent for a while before answering:

"Chloe, you always have a home here. I'll handle the tenant. Don't you worry about a thing."

Leaving my mom's house, I headed straight to a family law firm.

Attorney Vance, a sharp, composed woman in her thirties, listened intently to my story. Pushing up her glasses, she handed me a checklist.

"Mrs. Lin, if you're filing for divorce, here is what we need:"

"One: Solid proof of infidelity—SnapChat records, PayPal receipts, joint photos, as detailed as possible."

"Two: A full accounting of marital assets, including the house, vehicles, and savings accounts."

"Three: Custody of your son. As his primary caregiver, you have a massive advantage."

I nodded, laying out the bank statements and screenshots on her desk.

Attorney Vance scanned through them without flinching, having seen this play out countless times.

"This is a strong start. But if we can obtain direct evidence—like security footage of them together, or hotel records—our case becomes airtight. If you're not in an immediate rush, watch him for another couple of days to tighten the net."

"Understood," I agreed.

When I walked out of the law office, it was four in the afternoon. The harsh sun beat down on the pavement.

Standing on the sidewalk, I suddenly realized I had lived the past three years trapped inside an airtight jar.

No job, no social life, no personal income—every door shut tight by Sean’s repeated excuse: The family needs you.

Meanwhile, out in the real world, he used the life I had sacrificed to finance another woman.

My phone buzzed. A text from Lucas:

"Mom, prep class ended early today. I'm already home. Dad isn't back yet."

I hurried toward the subway station.

When I got home, Lucas was sitting at his desk doing practice tests, the desk lamp casting a warm glow over his profile.

He glanced up at me, then looked back down as his pen scratched rhythmically against the paper.

"Mom, is Dad under a lot of stress at work lately? He hardly ever comes home."

I set a bowl of fresh fruit by the corner of his desk, keeping my voice level.

"Maybe. Don't worry about him, focus on your studies."

Lucas gave a small nod, then hesitated. "Mom, there's something else."

"On Monday, my prep class runs late until seven-thirty, and the forecast says it might storm."

"You don't need to pick me up. I'll just take the subway home."

My heart seized violently.

Monday. The storm. Tutoring center steps. An out-of-control scooter.

Every detail matched my past life—the slick streets, the gloomy dusk, the runaway scooter plowing through the rain.

It had happened on this very day.

"No," I insisted, my voice tight. "I'm picking you up on Monday, no matter what time. Stay inside the lobby and wait for me. Do not step outside."

Lucas was stunned by my sudden intensity. "Huh? Mom, it's just a little rain. You don't have to freak out."

"Listen to me." I gripped his shoulder, my grip tighter than I intended. "Wait in the lobby. Do not walk outside."

Seeing the sheer gravity in my eyes, he nodded.

Around nine that night, Sean returned.

He slipped off his shoes and immediately headed to the bathroom to wash his hands. I caught a streak of pale pink on his shirt cuff—either lipstick or blush.

Sensing something, he immediately took off the shirt, dumped it in the laundry basket, and changed into loungewear.

"What kept you so late at work?" I asked from the sofa, holding a mug of tea.

"Crazy project deadlines. Endless meetings," he said, turning the TV to ESPN with an ease that felt rehearsed.

"Is that so? Must be exhausting."

I took a sip of tea, set the mug down, and walked into the bedroom.

Pulling the shirt from the hamper, I snapped a high-res photo of the pink smudge on the cuff.

Then I checked his jacket pockets. Inside, I found a flyer for the south-side loft development. On the back, someone had scribbled in ballpoint pen: 500 sq ft loft, $20k down, $1,500/month.

The handwriting didn't belong to Sean.

It belonged to the intern.

I photographed the flyer and tucked it back in place.

I couldn't sleep that night either, not out of grief, but because I was calculating every single move ahead.

In my past life, I lost my career, my dignity, and nearly my son.

This time, I was losing nothing.