Neo stepped into the house, his smile a little too wide, his movements a little too careful. The cloying scent of a hundred candles hit him first, followed by the sight of the elaborate dinner table set for two.
"Emma, baby…" he breathed out, layering his voice with a practiced awe. He moved to hug her, his arms wrapping around her stiff frame. She forced herself to relax into it, to even pat his back, all while the smell of whiskey and a faint, sweet perfume—*her* perfume—clung to his collar. It took every ounce of her willpower not to shove him away.
"Happy anniversary," she said, her voice a perfect, soft melody. "To the love of my life."
He pulled back, cupping her face. "Look at all this. You did all this for me? I'm the luckiest man alive." The guilt in his eyes was almost convincing. Almost.
"I figured we could still have a nice dinner," she said, gesturing to the table. "You must be starving after your long *meeting*."
They sat. The meal was a masterclass in pretense. He devoured the food, complimenting her cooking between bites, weaving elaborate lies about his fictional client and the draining negotiations. Emma nodded along, sipping her wine, her smiles perfectly timed. It was peaceful. It was serene. It was a beautiful, fragile bubble waiting to be popped.
*Boom.*
The first notification was a soft chime from Neo's phone, face-up on the table. He glanced at it, his fork freezing midway to his mouth. His smile tightened.
Then another. And another.
His phone lit up with a call. The screen flashed with a name he clearly didn't recognize, or perhaps did all too well. He let it go to voicemail, his knuckles white around his fork.
"Aren't you going to get that?" Emma asked, her tone light and innocent. "It might be important."
"No, no," he said too quickly. "It's no one. Probably a wrong number."
The phone rang again immediately. Same number. Then a third time, insistent, relentless.
"Neo, just answer it," Emma urged, feigning concern. "It might be your boss. You said the project was critical. What if it's an emergency?"
Panic was now a live wire in his eyes. He wiped his mouth with a napkin, his hand trembling slightly. "Yeah. Yeah, you're right. I'll… I'll just take this outside."
As he rose from his seat, his face was ashen. The candlelight caught the sheen of sweat blooming on his forehead and upper lip.
"Neo?" Emma's voice was a dagger wrapped in silk. "You look… scared. What's wrong?"
He couldn't even form a sentence. His phone, still in his hand, began to vibrate with a torrent of new notifications—texts, social media tags, more calls. He looked down at the screen, and his face completely crumpled. The color drained away, leaving a sickly gray pallor.
"What… how…" he stammered, his eyes wide with horror as he scrolled. "Emma… I am so sorry. You know that's not who I am! I don't even know who she is! I'm not sure what's happening!"
"What are you talking about, honey?" Emma asked, tilting her head. She took a slow, deliberate sip of her wine.
"These… these pictures…" he choked out, thrusting the phone toward her as if it were on fire. The screen was filled with the viral storm: him and the blonde woman, captured in compromising clarity from multiple angles. The tags were brutal: #CheaterNeo, #AnniversaryFail, #Karma.
He fell to his knees beside her chair, his body shaking with sobs he couldn't control. "Please, Emma, please. Forgive me. It was a mistake! I was drunk! I love you, only you!"
Emma looked down at him, this man groveling on the floor. She felt nothing. No anger, no sadness, no pity. Just a cold, serene satisfaction. She watched his performance, the tears and the begging, as if it were a mildly interesting play.
He begged for what felt like an eternity, promising to change, swearing it would never happen again, his words dissolving into a messy, incoherent jumble of apologies.
When he finally paused, gasping for air, Emma placed her wine glass down with a soft, precise click.
She leaned forward, her expression one of utter, beatific trust. She placed a cool hand on his tear-stained cheek.
"Neo," she said, her voice soft and unwavering. "I trust you."
He froze, staring at her in bewildered, hopeful shock.
"I trust you more than anyone in the world," she continued, her eyes holding his. "And I *know* you would never, ever do anything to hurt me like this. Right, Neo?"
The question hung in the air, a trap disguised as absolution. He was too desperate, too terrified to see the blade within the words.
"Y-yeah," he stammered, nodding frantically, clinging to the lifeline she'd thrown him. "Yes! Never! I would never!"
"Good," Emma said, her smile gentle and utterly terrifying. She withdrew her hand. "I know it's all just a horrible misunderstanding. Some people are just cruel."
Relief flooded his features, so potent it was almost pathetic. He began sobbing again, this time with gratitude, burying his face in her lap, muttering a thousand more "thank yous" and "I'm sorrys."
Emma sat perfectly still, her hand resting on his head not in comfort, but in ownership. She looked over his trembling form at the candlelit room, and her smile widened.
The game had just begun.