Updated Oct 30, 2025 • ~9 min read
Jared came home at 9:47 PM.
Samantha knew the exact time because she’d been watching the clock since 6:30, when he’d texted: Running late. Don’t wait up.
She sat at the kitchen island with a glass of wine she hadn’t touched, her laptop open to a document she hadn’t read. The chicken she’d made for dinner—his favorite, lemon rosemary, the one that usually made him kiss her forehead and call her amazing—sat in Tupperware in the fridge, already cold.
The garage door groaned open. Samantha didn’t move, didn’t look up from her screen, just listened to the familiar sounds of Jared coming home. Car door. Keys on the hook. The shuffle of shoes being kicked off.
He appeared in the kitchen doorway, loosening his tie with one hand while scrolling through his phone with the other. He looked good. Too good for someone who’d supposedly been stuck at the office for fifteen hours. His hair had that deliberately tousled look, and his jaw was smooth—had he shaved before leaving work?
“Hey,” he said, barely glancing at her.
“Hey.” Samantha closed her laptop. “Long day?”
“Brutal.” He opened the fridge, scanned the contents without interest, closed it again. His phone buzzed. He looked down at it, and something flickered across his face—a smile, quick and private, before he caught himself.
Samantha’s stomach tightened. “There’s chicken. I can heat it up if you want.”
“Already ate.” He was still looking at his phone, thumbs moving across the screen. Typing something. “Grabbed something at the office.”
“Right.” She took a sip of wine, forcing herself to sound casual. “Well, I was thinking about Dr. Leigh’s homework. The date night? Maybe we could do that Saturday—there’s that new tapas place downtown you mentioned wanting to try.”
Jared’s typing paused. He glanced up, and for a second, his expression was almost annoyed before he rearranged it into something neutral. “Saturday? I don’t know, Sam. I’ve got that presentation Monday, probably need to work through the weekend.”
“It’s one night,” she pressed, hating the pleading note in her voice. “A few hours. That’s literally what we’re paying Dr. Leigh to help us do—spend time together.”
His phone buzzed again. His eyes dropped to the screen automatically, like a reflex. Another small smile tugged at his mouth.
“Who is that?” The question came out sharper than she’d intended.
“What?” He pocketed the phone quickly. “Just work stuff. Martinez has questions about the Henderson account.”
“Martinez texts you at ten PM with smiley faces?”
Jared’s jaw tightened. “I don’t know what you think you saw, but yeah, Martinez is enthusiastic. That’s his management style.” He moved past her toward the stairs. “I’m gonna shower. Long day.”
Samantha watched him go, her grip on the wine glass so tight her knuckles went white. He’d showered this morning before work. She’d seen him, wet-haired and rushed, grabbing his coffee and kissing her cheek on autopilot. That was eight hours ago.
She sat there for another minute, listening to the water start upstairs, then walked quietly up the steps.
The bathroom door was closed, steam already curling underneath. On the bed, Jared’s work bag sat open, his suit jacket draped across the duvet. His phone lay face-down on the nightstand, charging.
Samantha’s heart hammered against her ribs. She shouldn’t. It was a violation of privacy. A breach of trust.
But what trust was left to breach?
She reached for the phone, her hand shaking slightly. Face ID wouldn’t work—she’d tried that months ago when her suspicions first started, only to discover he’d removed her face from the unlock settings. But she knew his passcode. Their wedding anniversary. Six years ago, back when they were still enough in love for him to use that date as his password for everything.
She typed it in.
Incorrect passcode.
Of course. He’d changed it.
Samantha set the phone down carefully, exactly where she’d found it, and stepped back. Her reflection in the dresser mirror looked pale, hollow-eyed. When had she become this person? Checking her husband’s phone, analyzing his smiles, tracking his showers?
The water shut off. She heard the shower curtain rings scrape against the rod.
She fled to their bedroom—her bedroom, technically, since Jared had been sleeping in the guest room for the past two months. She closed the door and sat on the edge of the bed, her mind racing.
He’d changed his passcode. He was smiling at his phone like a teenager with a crush. He’d showered at ten PM after “a long day at the office.”
And he’d made an excuse to avoid the one homework assignment their therapist had given them.
Fifteen minutes later, Jared emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam and cologne. Not his usual cologne—the woody one she’d bought him last Christmas. This was something new. Something citrusy and expensive-smelling.
He walked past her bedroom door without pausing, heading straight for the guest room.
Samantha lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, and tried to remember when she’d stopped being someone her husband wanted to come home to.
The next morning, Samantha woke to an empty house. Jared’s car was already gone from the garage, even though it was barely seven. No note. No text. Nothing.
She made coffee in the silent kitchen and tried not to think about the way he’d smiled at his phone last night. That private, secret smile. The kind of smile he used to give her when they were dating and he’d surprise her with concert tickets or handwritten poems that were terrible but earnest.
When was the last time he’d smiled at her like that?
Her phone buzzed. For one pathetic second, she hoped it was Jared.
Riley: Brunch Sunday? Need to tell you about my disaster date.
Samantha smiled despite herself. Riley had been her best friend since college, the kind of friend who showed up with wine and true crime documentaries when Samantha’s dad died, who’d helped her pick out her wedding dress and stood beside her when she’d said “I do” to a man who’d promised to love her forever.
Samantha: Definitely. My place, 11?
Riley: Perfect. Bringing mimosa supplies and gossip.
Samantha set down her phone and noticed Jared’s laptop still sitting on the kitchen counter from last night. He’d been in such a rush this morning he’d forgotten it.
She shouldn’t. She really, really shouldn’t.
But her hand was already reaching for it, opening the lid, watching the login screen appear. She typed in his password—the one for his computer, not his phone. The one he’d set up three years ago and probably forgotten to change because who remembers to change their laptop password?
It worked.
His email opened automatically, multiple tabs already loaded. Work emails, mostly. Nothing suspicious. She clicked through his browsing history, feeling like a criminal, feeling like someone she didn’t recognize.
Most of it was work-related. LinkedIn. Industry news sites. Amazon orders for office supplies.
Then she saw it.
A Google search from yesterday afternoon: “Dr. Leigh Westmore therapist reviews.”
Samantha’s breath caught. He’d looked her up. After their session, he’d gone back and researched their therapist.
She clicked on the search. The results showed Dr. Leigh’s practice website, her Psychology Today profile, a few articles she’d published about relationship dynamics. All professional. All normal.
But at the bottom of the first page, there was a Yelp review. One star. Dated six months ago.
“Unprofessional conduct. Blurred boundaries with my husband during our couples therapy. Would not recommend.”
The review had been flagged and removed by Yelp, but a cached version still existed. The reviewer’s name was blocked out, but the words remained, stark and damning.
Samantha sat back, her pulse thrumming in her ears.
Unprofessional conduct. Blurred boundaries.
Jared had seen this. He’d searched for Dr. Leigh and found this review. And he’d said nothing. They had another session scheduled for Thursday, and he’d kept this information to himself.
Her phone buzzed again.
Jared: Forgot my laptop. Need it for meeting. Can you drop it off?
Samantha stared at the message. Looked at the laptop. At the review still glowing on the screen.
Samantha: Sure. What time?
Jared: Whenever. I’m here all day.
She closed the laptop carefully, erasing her browsing history first, making sure everything looked exactly as he’d left it. Then she grabbed her keys and headed for the door.
But she didn’t drive to Jared’s office.
She drove to Dr. Leigh’s building downtown and parked across the street, three stories below the therapist’s office windows.
And she sat there, laptop in the passenger seat, watching.
At 10:15, a woman left the building. Blonde, well-dressed. A client, probably.
At 10:47, a delivery driver dropped off lunch.
At 11:30, Samantha’s phone buzzed.
Jared: Did you forget? Really need that laptop.
She looked up at the building, then down at her phone.
Samantha: On my way. Sorry.
But she sat there for five more minutes, watching the door, trying to understand the gnawing feeling in her gut that insisted something was very, very wrong.
When she finally pulled away from the curb, she drove to Jared’s office with the radio off, the silence pressing against her ears.
He met her in the lobby, grabbing the laptop with a quick “thanks” before turning back toward the elevators. No kiss. No smile. Barely eye contact.
“Jared.” Her voice stopped him. He turned back, impatient. “About Saturday. The date night. Can we please just try? Dr. Leigh said—”
“Dr. Leigh doesn’t understand how demanding my job is.” He shifted the laptop to his other hand. “Look, we’ll do it next week, okay? When things calm down.”
Things were never calm. Things hadn’t been calm in six months.
“Okay,” Samantha said, because what else was there to say?
She watched him disappear into the elevator, and she thought about that review. About unprofessional conduct and blurred boundaries.
And she wondered if the gnawing feeling in her gut was paranoia or instinct.
Either way, Thursday’s therapy session was going to be very interesting.
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