Chapter 1

My husband had a French translator, and they were always together.

Sometimes, on business trips, they’d even get the same hotel room.

It bothered me. A lot.

He’d get annoyed when I brought it up. "Chloe's job requires her to be by my side at all times. What are you even thinking?"

"If you have a dirty mind, everything looks dirty!"

Maybe I was being too sensitive.

Until one day, Chloe looked right at me and said to my husband in French:

"You're not actually spending the night with that old woman again, are you?"

Ethan replied to her, "Of course not, baby. I just have to make up some excuse to get away so I can be with you tonight."

They both assumed I couldn't understand a word of French.

……

I was walking through the living room when Chloe glanced up at me.

She gave me a sweet smile. "Thanks for making coffee, Claire. It's delicious."

Ethan was sitting next to her, buried in his work.

They stayed out of the study on purpose, to avoid suspicion.

That was because I’d fought with him about it before, asking why the two of them needed to lock the study door when they were alone.

Ethan had been so impatient. "We're just working. Can you please stop being so unreasonable?"

It had been a huge fight.

So after that, whenever he brought Chloe home, they stayed in the living room.

It was his way of proving nothing was going on.

I didn't complain again, and I tried my best not to bother them.

It wasn't like I could help with their work anyway.

"God, your wife is so annoying," Chloe muttered in French the second I turned my back, rolling her eyes.

The girl who had just praised my coffee was suddenly a completely different person.

She started whining to Ethan. "Do we have to work in here? Your wife is always hovering. We can't do anything."

Ethan just scoffed. "Don't talk nonsense."

"What are you afraid of? It's not like your wife understands French."

Her voice was dripping with contempt, and she emphasized the words on purpose.

I was watering the plants on the balcony, and her words made me freeze for a second.

"You're not actually spending the night with that old woman again, are you?"

Chloe pouted, tugging on his sleeve.

Hearing her describe me like that made my head spin.

An old woman?

Was she talking about me?

Ethan and I got together when we were nineteen; a full decade had passed since then.

Compared to Chloe, who was fresh out of college, I guess I wasn't as young.

"And I even bought some new lingerie. Don't you want to see it?"

She cooed at him, her voice turning soft and seductive.

Ethan, who had been all business a moment ago, raised an eyebrow and purred back at her.

"Of course not, baby. I just have to make up some excuse to get out of it so I can be with you tonight."

They laid it all out, right there in front of me, hidden behind a language they thought was their secret.

My breath caught in my throat.

I dropped the flowerpot, and it shattered, spilling dirt all over the floor.

Ethan heard the crash from the balcony and rushed over.

"Honey, are you okay?"

He looked at me with such concern, as if he were terrified I’d been hurt.

I shook my head, forcing a weak smile. "I'm fine."

"That's a relief. Don't worry about this, just go get some rest."

Ethan's eyes met Chloe's for a split second before returning to me.

"Honey, there's something I need to tell you."

"I know I promised I'd be home for your birthday, but a client just flew in last minute, and Chloe and I have to go meet them."

He said it so carefully.

He was so afraid I’d see through his lie, his voice full of fake regret and apology.

"Claire, I'm so sorry, this was just completely unexpected, I…"

I cut him off before he could finish his story. "It's okay. Go ahead."

His eyes lit up. "You're so understanding, Claire."

"I'll make it up to you as soon as I'm done, I promise!"

I didn't answer him, just walked towards the bathroom.

But I heard every word he said behind me.

In French, Ethan told Chloe, "See? I told you she'd buy it."

"Piece of cake. She's still so easy to fool."

The moment the door clicked shut, a sharp, stabbing pain spread through my chest.

It felt like a snapped string, destroying my entire world.

But even then, I didn't call him out on his lie.

I never would have imagined that the boy who loved me most at nineteen...

The boy who stood by the ocean and swore he would only ever love me...

Would, ten years later, be flirting with another woman right in front of my face.

He was betting on the fact that I would never find out his secret.

And I played my part perfectly.

I never let him know that I had taught myself French.