Chapter 3

'Fuck, my back's about to snap.'

'You little slut, you couldn't get enough all night, could you?'

'And going bareback? Aren't you scared of getting knocked up again?'

'By the way, when is your husband gonna drop dead?'

...

Just reading that preview made the blood roar in my ears.

My face burned hot, and my whole body shook with rage.

No wonder she looked so exhausted this morning with dark circles under her eyes. She spent the entire night in someone else's bed!

An all-nighter!

Trembling, I reached out to grab the phone, but the bathroom door clicked open. Chloe’s voice drifted out: "Hey babe, have you seen my phone?"

I quickly locked the screen, handed it to her, and acted casual. "It was on the coffee table. You listen to music in the shower now?"

"Of course. Showering with tunes sets the mood, you know?"

Grabbing her phone, Chloe slipped back into the bathroom.

I collapsed onto the couch, those texts replaying like a nightmare in my head. The filthy words, the dirty banter, and that final question—"When is your husband gonna drop dead?"—pushed my fury and terror to the breaking point.

When was I gonna die?!

I was young! Sure, overtime took a toll on my body, but I wasn't some decrepit old man with one foot in the grave!

I fought with everything I had to hold back the urge to confront her. When Chloe came out of the bathroom, I pretended to watch TV.

My eyes stared at the screen, but my mind was completely shattered.

Chloe sat beside me, towel-drying her hair, and asked, "Babe, hungry? Want me to whip something up for you?"

I shook my head, took a deep breath, and forced my voice to stay level. "No, I'm good. Not hungry. Let's just turn in early."

"How can you sleep without dinner?" Chloe frowned. "What do you feel like having? I'll make it right now."

In the past, I would have melted at her devotion.

Now, all I felt was cold suspicion.

Especially thinking about the line: 'When is your husband gonna drop dead?'

I couldn't help but question her obsession with cooking for me.

Could she be poisoning my food?

No... that's insane... Chloe wouldn't do that, right?

Even as I chanted those words in my head, tiny details from our daily life flooded back, suddenly screaming bloody murder.

Whenever she cooked, she only cooked for me. We rarely ate home-cooked meals together; if we ate together, it was always dining out. When she made food at home, she never made a portion for herself, always claiming she’d already eaten.

And yesterday at the hospital, a casual warning from a nurse made her shake so hard she dropped the spoon. If she had a clean conscience, why react like that?

Despite my best poker face, Chloe caught onto my hesitation.

"No appetite? Does something hurt?" she asked softly.

Why did she keep asking if something hurt?

Was she genuinely concerned, or checking on her handiwork?

Should I confront her right now?

No. Not yet. I needed hard evidence—like screenshots of those texts.

"No, I grabbed a bite on my way back," I forced a smile. "It's getting late. Let's sleep."

Chloe looked suspicious, but didn't push. She slipped into bed.

After brushing my teeth, I lay down beside her, tossing and turning.

Chloe wasn't asleep either. She lay with her back to me, glued to her screen.

Usually, I came home so exhausted that I crashed immediately after showering. I never noticed what time she slept or what she did before bed.

Now, every little thing screamed guilty.

Maybe because I was still recovering, exhaustion eventually caught up with me. My eyelids began to droop.

Suddenly, Chloe whispered, "Babe, you asleep?"

My heart leaped, adrenaline snapping me wide awake. Realizing she was testing me, I didn't open my eyes. Instead, I let out a soft, rhythmic snore.

Seconds later, rustling sounds came from beside me. Chloe leaned close. A soft touch brushed against my chest, but pulled away almost instantly.

What was she doing?

After waiting a few moments, I cracked my eyelids open a sliver. She was back in her original position, phone in hand. I slowly lifted my head, peeking at her screen.

To my horror, the latest message in her chat was a photo she had just sent.

In the photo, her top was pulled up, leaning against my sleeping chest, her face twisted in a sick, twisted smirk. She had taken it just seconds ago.

"How's that? Like it?" she texted him.