Chapter 3: The Woman in the Photo
The photo was taken inside the hotel.
I could tell by the wallpaper — the same dark green pattern that lined the corridor outside our suite.
The timestamp in the corner read 11:47 PM.
We had still been at the reception at 11:47 PM.
I remembered because Ian had pulled me onto the dance floor for the last song just before midnight.
In the photo, Ian was standing close to a woman I didn't recognize.
Not touching.
But close enough that the space between them meant something.
She had one hand pressed flat against his chest.
His head was bent toward hers.
His expression was not the face of a man who was uncomfortable.
My throat closed.
I typed back to the unknown number: *"Who is she?"*
The response came in under ten seconds.
*"Her name is Dana.
They were together for two years before he met you.
Meet me in the hotel lobby.
Coffee bar.
Ten minutes.
Come alone."*
I stood in the hallway for a long moment.
The carpet was soft under my bare feet.
Somewhere down the corridor a door clicked shut.
A cart rattled past the far end of the hall.
I went back into the room.
Ian hadn't moved.
He was on his side, one arm stretched across my empty half of the bed, his hand open against the pillow where my head had been.
His breathing was slow and even.
I looked at him for a long time.
Then I found my shoes, pulled on the cardigan hanging over my suitcase, and went downstairs.
---
The coffee bar was nearly empty at that hour.
A couple near the window with luggage at their feet.
A man alone at the counter with a newspaper.
And a woman at the far table, watching the elevator doors.
She was around my age, maybe a few years younger.
Dark hair pulled back.
No makeup.
She had a coffee in front of her that she hadn't touched.
When she saw me, she didn't smile.
She just pulled out the chair across from her.
I sat down.
"You're her," she said.
Not a question.
"I'm his wife," I said.
"As of yesterday."
Something moved across her face.
"I know.
I was there."
"At the wedding."
"I was a plus-one.
A friend of a friend.
I didn't know whose wedding it was until I saw him at the altar." She wrapped both hands around her coffee cup.
"I almost left.
I should have left."
"But you didn't."
"No." She looked down.
"And then I saw him at the bar during the reception.
We talked.
It was — it was brief.
He told me it was over, that he'd moved on, that I needed to stop."
"Stop what?"
She looked up.
"Hoping."
The word landed between us like something dropped from a height.
"He wrote you a note," I said.
"He slipped it to me when he thought no one was watching.
I dropped it.
On purpose." She paused.
"I wanted you to find it."
I kept my voice steady.
"Why?"
"Because I spent two years believing he was honest." Her jaw tightened.
"And then I found out he was seeing you the entire second year we were together.
He didn't end things with me.
He just — added you.
And when I confronted him, he told me I was imagining it.
That I was unstable.
That I needed help."
The room felt very still.
"He said the same thing to you," she said.
"Didn't he.
When you had doubts.
He made you feel like the problem."
I didn't answer.
I didn't have to.
She reached into her bag and set a small envelope on the table.
"There are more photos in there.
And a screenshot of a conversation between us from eight months ago.
Four months after he proposed to you."
My hand didn't move toward the envelope.
"I'm not trying to hurt you," she said.
"I'm trying to give you what I wish someone had given me."
I finally picked it up.
Inside, the first photo showed Ian and this woman — Dana — at a restaurant I recognized.
I had walked past it a hundred times.
It was three blocks from our apartment.
The date on the screenshot was October 14th.
Ian had proposed to me in September.
I set everything back in the envelope.
Carefully.
Like it was something that could break.
"Does he know you're here?" I asked.
"No."
"Does anyone else know?"
"No."
I stood up.
"Thank you," I said.
And I meant it, even though every word felt like it cost me something.
I took the elevator back upstairs.
I stood outside our suite door with my key card in my hand.
From inside, I heard movement.
The sound of Ian waking up.
Then his voice, muffled through the door: "Babe?
Where are you?"
I pressed my back against the wall beside the door and closed my eyes.
May you like
I had two hours before we were supposed to leave for the airport.
And I had no idea what I was going to say when I walked back into that room.
