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I had just returned home from a grueling three-day corporate summit in Boston when I saw my husband washing my custom Range Rover Autobiography in our sprawling driveway.

I stopped my luggage in its tracks, the wheels clicking to a halt on the pavers. “Why so domestic today?”

Normally, getting Alistair to so much as run the car through an automated wash required three reminders and a calendar invite. Had he suddenly developed a conscience while I was busy securing our company’s latest acquisition?

Alistair paused, a sponge dripping suds onto the asphalt, and gave me that boyish, devastatingly charming smile that made his university students swoon. “Well, my beautiful wife is the CEO. I have to make sure her chariot shines.”

I gave a wry, exhausted smile and dropped my bags by the door, grabbing a dry microfiber cloth to help him buff the rear windshield. The crisp late-autumn air hit the warm, soapy water he had just splashed over the glass, causing a thick layer of condensation to bloom across the tinted window.

And then, I saw them.

A pair of small footprints materialized in the fog on the inside of the glass. The toes were tightly curled, the arches strained, as if someone had been desperately pressing their bare feet against the rear window for leverage.

The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. My scalp tingled with an icy, creeping dread.

I turned slowly to look at Alistair. He had already turned his back, effortlessly carrying the heavy bucket of water up the porch steps, whistling a light jazz tune.

My hands shook as I fished my phone out of my trench coat. I snapped a flash-free photograph of the glass just as the condensation began to shrink and dissipate, erasing the evidence.

I opened my messages and sent the photo to my best friend, Sienna.

[I need Brody to look at something.] If he can tell me who this belongs to, I’ll fund his entire forensic department’s holiday party.

Sienna, who was also my executive assistant, replied within seconds: [Gross, but okay. Forwarding to him now. You okay, Tori?]

I didn’t answer. I switched screens and dialed my firm’s concierge auto-broker.

“I need an Aston Martin convertible. Silver-gray. Have it delivered to my estate, as quickly as humanly possible.”

…

Sitting in my home office an hour later, I opened Alistair Thorne’s university faculty profile. My fingertips were numb as I scrolled. Professor of Modern Literature. A feed full of academic forum posts, seminar announcements, and links to his published thesis on moral ambiguity in 19th-century prose. He was the picture of academic perfection. Dignified. Proper.

My phone vibrated violently against the mahogany desk. It was Brody, Sienna’s fiancé.

[Women’s size 6. Roughly 105 to 110 pounds. Judging by the arch spread, she’s petite. Tori… I know you’re a size 8 and a lot taller than this. What’s going on?]

The room spun.

How could it be? I had been in Boston for three days. My Range Rover had been in Alistair’s possession the entire time. Furthermore, he was famously—almost frustratingly—reserved. Just last month, I had leaned over the console to kiss him after a dinner date, and he had gently pushed me back. “Drive properly, Tori. We have a bedroom for a reason.”

I walked out of my office feeling like a ghost haunting my own home.

As I pushed open the dining room doors, the rich aroma of truffle artisan pasta hit my senses. Alistair poked his head out from the kitchen, an apron tied neatly around his waist, holding a crystal vase bursting with rare Baccarat black roses. He looked like something out of a lifestyle magazine.

“Happy birthday, Tori. I had them flown in from Ecuador. I know they’re your favorite.”

I stared at the pristine pasta, the dark, velvety petals of the roses. My throat felt like it was lined with shattered glass.

Alistair was a refined, beloved academic. I was a high-powered senior executive at a global logistics firm, known for my sharp suits and relentless drive. We had been married for five years. We had a beautiful seven-year-old daughter, Mia. Our life was the blueprint of modern success.

I didn’t understand why he would betray me.

A wave of nausea crashed over me, violent and sudden, as if I had swallowed something rotting.

Alistair didn’t notice my pallor. He set the vase down, walked over, and wrapped his arms around me from behind, burying his face in my neck.

“Do you love them?” he murmured.

I looked down at the roses, my eyes burning. Who would have thought? The man whispering sweet nothings into my ear had, hours prior, been doing something filthy enough to leave footprints on my car window with another woman.

The irony was suffocating.

“I love them,” I lied, my voice remarkably steady. I gently stepped out of his embrace and turned around. “I heard your master’s thesis students are defending soon. You should invite them over for dinner. I’d love to get to know the people you spend so much time with.”

A flicker of hesitation crossed his eyes—so fast you would miss it if you weren’t looking for it—but he quickly nodded. “Of course. I’ll arrange it.”

But my instincts had misfired. The dinner happened three days later. I ran background checks on every single female grad student in his cohort. None of them were a size 6. None of them weighed under 110 pounds.

After the students left, Alistair poured two glasses of Cabernet. He picked up a chocolate-covered strawberry and brought it to my lips. I instinctively flinched, pulling my face away.

His hand hovered in the air. He leaned closer, his voice dropping an octave. “Not hungry? I can think of a few other ways to feed you. Don’t forget… we talked about trying for a little brother for Mia before the year ends.”

I forced a tight, polite smile. “I’m exhausted from the Boston merger, Alistair. Let’s raincheck.”

His charming smile curdled into a tight, hard line. His fingers lingered on the strawberry stem before he dropped it back onto the plate.

“Fine. Get some rest. I have an early lecture; I’m going to my study to prep.”

He walked out. I locked the bedroom door and curled into a ball on the duvet, the sheer exhaustion of my corporate life and my crumbling marriage pulling me under. I must have dozed off, because a soft click downstairs woke me.

I dragged myself out of bed and peered through the blackout curtains to the driveway below.

Alistair was sliding into the driver’s seat of the Range Rover.

Seconds later, the heavy luxury SUV began to rhythmically shift on its suspension.

My heart flatlined.

Trembling, I picked up my phone and dialed Alistair. It rang out to voicemail. My blood ran ice cold. Desperate, needing someone, anyone, I dialed my best friend, Sienna.

The line connected. But she didn’t say hello.

Through the speaker, I heard a sharp gasp. Then, a soft, unmistakable moan.

“Alistair… wait, be gentle.”

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