Emma dusted her husband’s study when her cloth brushed a pile of papers at the edge of his desk. Sheets scattered across the floor, and muttering under her breath, she bent to gather them. Something glinted under the armchair—an unfamiliar black object. She reached for it and pulled out a worn smartphone in a battered case.
“Odd,” she murmured, turning it over.
James’ new iPhone always stayed in his jacket pocket or on the bedside table. This one was cheaper, simpler… and unrecognisable. She pressed the button—the screen lit up, displaying the time. No passcode. Her heart clenched, a lump rising in her throat.
She sank slowly into the chair, eyes fixed on the device. Twenty-three years of marriage had seen arguments, hurt, even distrust—but a secret phone? Emma had never considered herself the jealous type. She’d trusted James, proud of their life together. Now, fear coiled in her stomach as she hesitated to unlock its secrets.
*Twenty-three years. Two daughters. Was it all a lie?*
Her fingers mechanically scrolled the menu. No photos. Just a handful of contacts—unnamed, marked with initials and numbers. Then the messages. She froze at a thread labelled “L.W.”
*”Tonight at 7, as usual?”* James had written three days ago.
*”Yes, see you there,”* came the reply.
Then, two days later:
*”Thanks for last night. Perfect as always.”*
*”Glad you enjoyed. Same time tomorrow?”*
*”Will try. Emma’s suspicious.”*
The room spun. *Suspicious?* She hadn’t suspected a thing until this moment! Fury and betrayal burned through her. Twenty-three years of trust—and for what?
The front door clicked shut downstairs. James was home early. Panicked, Emma shoved the phone into her dressing gown pocket, snatched up her duster, and pretended to clean.
“Em? You here?” His voice echoed from the hall.
“Study!” she called, fighting to keep her voice steady.
James appeared in the doorway—tall, sharply dressed, still handsome at fifty. She used to adore the way women looked at him. Now, it made her stomach twist.
“How was your day?” she asked, wiping the bookshelf with unnecessary force.
“Fine. Just tired. Had a picky client—wasted three hours.”
*Which client? L.W.?* She bit back the question.
“You’re home early.” She turned, searching his face for deceit.
“Missed you.” He wrapped his arms around her from behind, nuzzling into her neck. His familiar cologne carried a hint of cigarettes—odd, since he’d quit five years ago. The scent stung.
“Off to shower.” He kissed her cheek and left.
Alone again, Emma collapsed onto the sofa. What now? Confront him? Spy? The phone weighed heavily in her pocket. She reopened the messages—nothing explicit, no declarations of love. But the secrecy itself was damning.
Dinner was agony. They ate, watched TV, talked about their daughters—Sophie at university, Hannah married with a toddler. James acted normal—chatting about work, joking, asking about her day. Only she knew the truth.
At ten, he showered. She rifled through his suit jacket. Nothing. Then his briefcase—empty. Just as she gave up, she spotted a small card in the inner pocket: *”Lydia Walker,”* with a phone number. *L.W.,* from the messages?
The water turned off. Emma hurriedly replaced everything and slipped into bed, feigning sleep. Her pulse thundered so loudly she swore he’d hear.
At breakfast, she couldn’t hold back.
“James… are you happy with me?” She stirred sugar into her tea, avoiding his eyes.
He frowned. “What kind of question is that?”
“Just answer.”
“Of course I am. Twenty-three years, Em.”
His hand covered hers. Once warm, now it burned.
“Do you ever… want someone else?”
His frown deepened. “What’s going on?”
“Just answer!”
His grip tightened. “I don’t want anyone else. You’re my wife. My rock.”
The words sounded sincere. But the phone still burned in her mind.
That afternoon, she Googled Lydia Walker. A physiotherapist. Social media showed a petite redhead, early forties.
*So this is L.W.* Bile rose in her throat.
She called her oldest friend, Claire.
“I found a second phone in James’ study.” Her voice shook.
“What? No. What was on it?”
Emma relayed the messages, the business card, the redhead.
“Oh, Em…” Claire sighed. “Are you sure?”
“Twenty-three years, Claire. I trusted him!”
“Talk to him.”
But fear paralyzed her. What if the truth destroyed everything?
That evening, James came home with roses—her favourite.
“What’s this for?” she asked stiffly. A peace offering? Guilt?
“Just because.” He kissed her cheek. “You’ve seemed down lately.”
Dinner was torture. The hidden phone pulsed in her pocket. Finally, she snapped.
“James, what would you say if I had a secret phone?”
He choked on his wine. “Excuse me?”
“Hidden messages. Meetings. Would you ask who I was seeing?”
He set his glass down hard. “I’d demand an explanation.”
Emma stood, fetched the phone, and slammed it on the table.
“I found this. Saw your messages with *L.W.* Found Lydia Walker’s card in your pocket.” Her voice shook. “Twenty-three years. How could you?”
James stared. Then—laughter. Deep, genuine. Emma froze.
“Em—god, no.” He wiped his eyes. “It’s not what you think.”
She crossed her arms. “Explain.”
“Remember last year? My fiftieth? You kept asking what I wanted?”
She nodded warily.
“Well… I’ve always wanted to learn piano. Childhood dream, never had time.”
“*Piano?*”
“Yes! Private lessons. Lydia’s my instructor. The messages—scheduling. The ‘Emma’s suspicious’ bit? I didn’t want you finding out. I’m rubbish still, but…” He grinned. “I was going to play for our anniversary.”
Emma gaped. “Prove it.”
He disappeared, returned with a keyboard case.
“Kept it at the office.” He sat, played a halting but recognisable rendition of *Unchained Melody.*
Tears spilled down her cheeks—relief, shame.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
He knelt before her. “No, *I’m* sorry. Wanted it to be special. Didn’t mean to hurt you.”
That night, they talked for hours—about dreams neglected, about surprises buried under daily life.
The next morning, Emma called Claire.
“Turns out, my husband’s secretly a pianist.”
Claire laughed. “That’s adorable!”
“Isn’t it?” Emma smiled. “We’ve forgotten how to dream, Claire.”
That evening, James came home to candlelit dinner and a small box by his plate. Inside, a metronome engraved *”To My Maestro,”* and two notes—one for violin lessons (her childhood dream), the other a weekend spa reservation.
“Let’s dream together,” she said simply.
He held her tight, as though rediscovering her after years apart. There were still decades ahead—and now, they’d fill them with surprises.
