Morning light leaked through the blinds, slicing the apartment into strips of gold and shadow. Grace hadn't slept. The photo sat on her kitchen table, corners curling slightly from where she'd held it too long.
Mark's arm around Mia.
A hotel terrace she didn't recognize.
The timestamp in the corner — two weeks ago.
She traced the date with her fingertip, numb. She wanted to believe it was old, a coincidence, anything but what it was. But the timestamp blinked back at her like a cruel joke.
By the time her phone buzzed again, she was sitting cross-legged on the floor.
Unknown Number: Now you see it.
Her heart lurched. She typed quickly: Who are you? Why are you sending me this?
Unknown Number: Because lies rot in the dark.
The message vanished before she could take a screenshot — gone, as if it had never been there.
Grace stared at the blank screen. Fear and curiosity warred inside her. If she went to the police, what would she even say? That someone was texting her from nowhere about an affair she already knew existed? That a photograph had arrived on her doorstep like a ghost?
Instead, she did the only thing she could control — she went to work.
Ethan was already there, leaning over his desk. When he looked up, his smile faded instantly.
"You're pale," he said. "What happened?"
"Nothing," she lied. "Didn't sleep."
He studied her for a long moment. "Grace—"
"I said it's fine," she cut him off. The sharpness in her voice startled even her.
He nodded slowly. "Okay. But if you need to talk, you know where to find me."
All day, her mind kept replaying the image. By late afternoon, she couldn't take it anymore. She opened her browser, typed in the name of the hotel she'd seen on the photograph's logo — The Meridian. A luxury spot downtown.
Her fingers trembled as she scrolled through the photos online. The terrace. The same railing. The same view.
She closed her laptop, grabbed her bag, and left the office.
---
The hotel lobby smelled of citrus and polished marble. A pianist played something slow and elegant in the corner. Grace walked to the front desk, her voice steady only because she forced it to be.
"Hi," she said. "I think I left a bracelet here last week. I stayed with my husband — Mark Warren."
The receptionist smiled politely. "One moment, ma'am." She typed for a few seconds, then glanced at the screen. "I'm sorry, but I don't see a reservation under that name last week. The last stay under Warren was… this Monday. A Miss Mia Warren."
Grace's pulse stumbled. "Are you sure?"
"Yes, ma'am. Two nights. Suite 1107."
Her throat went dry. "Thank you."
She walked out before the woman could ask anything else. Her hands shook as she fished her phone from her purse. Another message waited for her.
Unknown Number: Now you understand.
She stopped on the sidewalk, the city moving around her in waves.
It wasn't over. Mia hadn't left. Mark hadn't stopped. They were still together, still lying — maybe even living together now.
But the part that terrified her most wasn't the betrayal. It was who knew enough to show her.
Who was watching them?
That night, Grace sat by her window again, the city lights flickering like distant fires. The photo lay on the table beside her.
She whispered into the empty room, "What do you want from me?"
Her phone buzzed once more.
Unknown Number: The truth always wants to be seen.
She stared at the message until the screen went dark.
Outside, somewhere far below, a car door slammed. A figure crossed the street — tall, familiar, shadowed.
When she looked again, the street was empty.