The second phone was there, shivering under Leo's seat like it knew it was guilty. Elara would've missed it if her stupid coat hadn't hooked on the rail when she leaned down to grab her runaway shopping list. One yank, then another—suddenly there it was, vibrating like it wanted a medal for best secret kept. The whole car seat buzzed along with it.
Unknown Number.
Preview:
"Tonight. Same room. Same scarlet. Don't make me wait, Lion."
Scarlet.
Yeah, that word hit her like a brick. Scarlet—the lipstick stain she'd caught on Leo's collar last month, the one he'd laughed off. "Client from Bordeaux, totally wasted, super French." Sure, pal. Scarlet—the dress she bought for their anniversary, the dinner he bailed on for some "urgent board meeting." Scarlet—like the blood pounding in her head now, drowning out everything. Birds, cars, the whole shiny October day—gone.
Her knees slammed the garage floor. Tights weren't made for this. Concrete bit through, but she barely felt it. Everything was fuzzy, like she was wrapped in a freezer bag full of static.
The phone buzzed again. Another message.
"P.S. – I kept the blindfold. It smells like you."
She couldn't even breathe. Something clamped around her chest, squeezing the air out. White sparks at the edges of her vision. Maybe she'd pass out. Maybe that would be better.
No, no, no. This was a joke, right? Or a wrong number. Please God, let it be a wrong number.
Her thumb, totally numb, jammed the home button.
Face ID? Nope. Try again. Denied.
Fine, whatever. The passcode field popped up and, traitor hands, they just typed in Leo's birthday like they had a mind of their own.
Unlocked.
First thing she saw? Leo's hand knotted in someone's red hair, hotel sheets dark as wine. Someone else's hair.
Her stomach did a backflip. Acid in her throat, burning.
But she didn't puke. Didn't even make a sound.
Everything snapped super clear instead. Every dust speck, every heartbeat, every single lie.
She scrolled.
Messages—five months worth. Five. While she planned surprise weekends, lay next to him all night, toasted to his promotion with champagne she'd barely paid for—he was… here. With her.
Lioness. Lion. Ugh. Who talks like that?
"Meet @4, Rm 812, bring the scarlet."
"Delete after read."
"I can still taste the peach on your throat."
Peach. Crap. The peach body butter by their bed. The one she thought she'd just used a bit too much of last week.
Her heart slowed down, weirdly. Cold, focused. Not grief exactly—something sharper, like glass growing inside her.
Footsteps.
Leo's voice drifted in from the kitchen: "Babe, have you seen my—"
She shot up so fast her back popped. The phone disappeared into her coat like it never existed.
She wiped her mouth. Blood—she'd bitten her lip clean through.
And there was Leo, filling the doorway. Tie loose, that easy smile, eyes the same color they'd been the day he swore he'd never hurt her.
What a joke.
There you are. Took me five minutes to dig up the keys and—Jesus, you look like you've seen a ghost. You alright? You're white as a damn sheet.
He was on her, fast—hands on her cheeks, warm and grounding and yeah, a little dangerous.
Elara glanced up, felt her face slide into that well-practiced mask.
"I'm fine," she said, cool as a cucumber. "Just tripped. You know me, all grace and poise."
His thumbs brushed under her eyes, gentle, too gentle. "You sure? You're shaking."
"Probably just need some sugar," she lied, leaning into it like it was gospel. "I'll make tea."
He kissed her forehead, one of those soft, this-is-mine kisses. "Got a late one tonight. Don't wait up, I'll be back past midnight."
Midnight. Room 812. Scarlet. Yeah, right.
She almost laughed. Instead, she did the wifey thing—sweet smile, eyes soft. "Again? Poor you. Text me when you're on your way, okay? Don't want to worry."
"Always," he said, giving her a squeeze before snagging the spare key and heading out. Whistling. Of course. Their wedding song, no less.
Garage door slammed. Quiet.
Elara slipped the burner from her pocket.
Banking app.
Leo hadn't even bothered to log out—just left the thumbprint.
She stared at the number: $1.7 million, just chilling.
Their joint account? A sad little $12K. Her inheritance, supposedly.
Ping. Mistress, right on cue:
"Can't wait to feel your teeth on the scarlet ribbon again. Window'll be open."
Her heart ticked steady, like a clock counting down.
Contacts. Mistress—"L.A. Realtor."
She typed, slow and sharp:
"Change of plans. 8 instead of midnight. Bring the blindfold. Bring the keycard for the fancy elevator—I want the city to watch us."
Signed off, "Forever your Lion." Leo's little touch.
Send.
Back to the banking app.
Wire transfer: $750K, offshore account, courtesy of dear old Dad's questionable hobbies. Leo had no idea.
Punched in the code from Leo's phone, wiped the email from his inbox, nuked the history.
Photo gallery next.
Found the shot: Leo, face halfway to hell between the redhead's legs, that scarlet blindfold looking a bit too poetic around his neck.
Mailed it to herself. Then to the PI—business card she'd held onto since Leo's first unexplained "emergency" at the office three years back.
Subject line: "Invoice attached. Full background on both. Rush."
Almost done.
Notes app.
Typed:
"Found your phone. Game on. – E."
Left it sitting on the lock screen for him to find, because why the hell not.
Slipped the phone back under the seat rail, right where she'd found it, and strolled back inside.
She caught sight of herself in the hallway mirror. Wild eyes, lips chewed raw, but that smile? Still there.
She kept smiling as she made tea she wouldn't touch, set out Leo's favorite mug, and texted from her own phone:
"Drive safe, love. Can't wait to hear all about your meeting."
Send.
Phone down. Landline up.
Dialed the number for the hotel—the one from the keycard in Leo's wallet last week.
Let's see how he likes midnight now.
"Concierge? Yeah, this is Mrs. Caldwell. Do me a favor—leave a bottle of Dom Pérignon in 812 at 7:45 p.m., on the house if you can swing it? My husband's got a thing tonight, and I want to surprise him." She rattled off Leo's name, their card, hung up before she could start second-guessing.
The house just—sat there. All silent except for the grandfather clock in the hall, ticking away like it had a grudge.
Elara climbed the stairs, dropped her coat in a heap, stepped into the closet. She dug past all the boring, "I'm just a wife" dresses to the back, fingers landing on the old garment bag nobody was supposed to touch.
She unzipped it. Inside: the scarlet dress. That one. Silk, backless, red like fresh blood—looked like trouble and probably was.
She pressed it to her face for a second. Smelled like cedar, old perfume, and the kind of memories that show up when you least want them. And ruin, maybe. Just a hint.
She opened her jewelry box and grabbed the little USB drive—"Insurance" scrawled on the label. Every tax file, every offshore account, every forged signature Leo thought she'd missed last year while "helping" out in his office. Back then, she told herself she was being paranoid.
Turns out, she was just ahead of schedule.
By 7:30 she'd be at the hotel bar, draped in red. 7:45, champagne would make its grand entrance. 8:00, Leo's mistress would sashay into 812, all expectation and perfume. 8:01, Elara would step out, stage left. Curtain up.
But first—because drama's half the point—she needed one last act.
She snagged Leo's spare key, drove back to the garage, dropped to her knees by the Audi. Out came the tiniest screwdriver, a little twist to the driver's seat rail. Not enough to break—just enough that the seat would fly back the second Leo stomped the gas.
A warning shot. A love tap before the storm.
She stood, wiped her hands, grinned at the darkness pooling under the car like spilled ink.
Somewhere out there, some redhead was painting her lips, probably humming to herself, thinking tonight was hers. Leo? He was checking his watch, picturing silk and skin and all his little lies.
Neither of them had a clue the game was already on.
Elara locked up, slid behind her own wheel, started the engine. Dashboard clock blinked 7:02—game time.
She pulled out, watched Leo's burner phone vibrating on the passenger seat—three messages, all ignored.
She didn't bother checking. She'd written them.
Turning onto the boulevard, headlights slicing up the dark, she watched the house shrink in her rearview—just a dollhouse now, stuffed with ghosts she was finally ready to set on fire.
Right before the city swallowed her up, she whispered, not to anyone in particular—maybe to herself, maybe to some bored god listening in.
"Keep your eyes open," she said. "The lion thinks he runs the show. Tonight? The lioness remembers her claws."
She punched the gas.
The scarlet dress swayed on the hanger, bright as a battle flag.
Behind her, the garage light flickered, then gave up for good.