Simone placed pancakes on two plates. “Where?”
“Thailand.”
The word came out too quickly.
She looked up.
Trevor smiled, but the smile sat wrong on his face. “I know it’s far. But flights are cheap right now, and we found this amazing accommodation deal. We’d move around a little. Bangkok, Chiang Mai, maybe the islands. Really immerse ourselves.”
“How long?”
He looked down at his coffee.
“Six months.”
Simone set the spatula beside the stove.
“Six months?” she repeated.
“I know it sounds long.”
“It is long, Trevor.”
“I’m forty-two.” He sat at the table, leaning forward, using sincerity like furniture he could arrange between them. “If I don’t do this now, I never will. I’ve been working nonstop for years. I need air. I need perspective.”
“What about your job?”
“I talked to Gerald. He said I have leave saved up. He understands burnout. He thinks it might be good for me.”
Simone sat across from him. The pancakes cooled between them.
“And I’m supposed to stay here alone for half a year while you travel with your friends?”
“You could visit,” he said quickly. “We’d video chat all the time. And when I get back, I’ll be refreshed. Ready to focus on us.”
Then he reached across the table and took her hand.
“Maybe we finally start trying for that baby.”
There it was.
The bait.
The subject he avoided whenever she brought it up gently. Three years of “not yet,” “after the promotion,” “after we save more,” “when things calm down.” Now he laid motherhood on the table like a reward for patience.
Simone should have said no. She knew that later with the clean cruelty of hindsight. She should have asked why a married man needed six months away from his wife to find himself. She should have called Gerald. She should have asked to speak to Jason and Terrell. She should have trusted the sharp thing moving through her stomach.
But eight years of marriage had trained her to be understanding.
So she said yes.
Two weeks later, she drove him to the airport before dawn. The sky was still black. Fluorescent lights buzzed above the departure curb. Trevor kissed her quickly, almost distractedly, his eyes moving toward the terminal.
“I’ll call when I land,” he promised.
“Every day?”
“Every day,” he said. “Or every few days, with the time difference. But I’ll text constantly.”
He did not text constantly.
The messages came like receipts from a man fulfilling a minimum obligation.
Landed. Jet-lagged.
Hotel is nice.
Going to explore today.
Amazing food here.
Miss you.
The video calls were worse. Twice a week, always from beige hotel rooms with generic artwork and curtains drawn behind him. He looked showered, dressed, and alert. Too alert. He told her about temples, markets, beaches, cooking classes, but his stories had no texture.
“How was the Grand Palace?” she asked during one call.
“Amazing,” he said. “Lots of gold. Incredible architecture.”
“What was your favorite part?”
He blinked. “Probably the main temple area.”
It sounded like a man describing a travel website.
The breaking point came three months in.
It was morning for Simone, night for him. Trevor appeared on screen smiling too brightly, talking about a beach town in the south. Then a woman’s voice floated from somewhere behind the phone.
“Baby, did you want coffee?”
Trevor froze.
The screen went black.
Simone could still hear him.
“I’m on the phone,” he hissed. “Can you give me one minute?”
“Oh,” the woman said. “Sorry. I didn’t know you were talking to one of the guys.”
The camera came back on. Trevor was smiling, but his eyes had hardened.
“Room service,” he said.
“She called you baby.”
“What?”
“I heard her.”
“The connection is bad. You misheard.”
“Trevor.”
“Simone, don’t do this. I’m with the guys. You’re being paranoid.”
That word did something to her.
Paranoid.
It was not the lie itself. It was the contempt beneath it. The expectation that she would abandon her own ears because he told her to. The confidence that she was still the woman who would rather doubt herself than disturb the marriage.
They argued for ten minutes before he claimed the Wi-Fi was unstable and ended the call.
Simone sat in the kitchen afterward, sunlight falling across the floor, her coffee untouched beside her laptop.
Then she opened a search page and typed: private investigator infidelity international travel.
Dennis Waller was a retired police detective with kind eyes and the emotional bluntness of a man who had seen too much human stupidity to be dramatic about it. He met her in a quiet office above a tax preparation company, listened to her story, and took notes with a black pen.
“I’ll be honest with you, Mrs. Rodriguez,” he said. “If your husband is cheating, I’ll find proof. But once people see the proof, they can’t unsee it. Some clients think they want the truth until it arrives. Are you sure?”
Simone looked at her wedding ring.
“I’m sure.”
It took him two weeks.
The first report was a navy folder two inches thick.
Subject: Trevor Rodriguez.
Investigation Period: Three Weeks.
Summary: Subject is cohabiting with Amber Mitchell, age twenty-nine, in a rented apartment in Bangkok, Thailand.
Simone read that sentence several times before turning the page.
The photos came next.
Trevor and Amber at a rooftop restaurant.
Trevor and Amber on a beach.
Trevor and Amber cooking together in a small apartment kitchen.
Trevor and Amber in bed, early morning sunlight across their faces, his arm around her bare shoulders.
Then the private Instagram account.
@trevor_chapter.
New chapter.
Simone almost laughed when she saw the username. He had not even been subtle.
The earliest post was eight months old, two months before he proposed the trip. Amber behind a bar, smiling under blue lights. Caption: Met someone special tonight. Sometimes life surprises you.
The next posts told the rest of it in chronological cruelty. Lunch dates. Hotel weekends. A “work conference” in Las Vegas that was actually three days in Amber’s apartment. Planning screenshots. Flight confirmations. Their six-month lease in Bangkok signed by both Trevor Rodriguez and Amber Mitchell.
Amber’s own Instagram was even worse in a different way.
She did not look like a villain.
She looked like a woman who believed she was loved.
Her captions mentioned Trevor’s difficult divorce. His fresh start. His courage. His healing. She called him the kindest man she had ever known.
Trevor had lied to both of them.
To Simone, he was a hardworking husband taking a once-in-a-lifetime boys’ trip before settling down to start a family.
To Amber, he was a separated man rebuilding his life after a loveless marriage.
In reality, he was neither brave nor trapped. He was greedy. He wanted his wife’s stability and his girlfriend’s admiration. He wanted the old house waiting for him if the fantasy failed and the new woman waiting if it succeeded.
Dennis had written a note at the end.
In my professional opinion, Mr. Rodriguez is conducting a soft exit. He is building a new life while maintaining the old one as a safety net. When he returns, he will likely control the narrative by claiming he “grew apart” during the trip.
Simone read that paragraph three times.