Emily wiped the dust in her husband’s study when her cloth brushed against a stack of papers on the edge of his desk. They scattered across the floor, and she cursed under her breath as she gathered them. Then something gleamed beneath the armchair—a small black object. She reached for it and pulled out a smartphone in a worn-out case.
“Odd,” she murmured, turning it over in her hands.
James’s brand-new iPhone was always either in his jacket pocket or on his bedside table. This one was clearly cheaper, simpler… unfamiliar. She pressed the power button—the screen lit up, showing the time and date. No passcode. Her heart clenched, her throat tightening.
She sank into the chair, eyes fixed on the device. In their twenty-three years of marriage, they’d had their share of fights, grudges, even distrust. But a secret phone? Emily had never thought of herself as the jealous type. She’d trusted James, prided herself on their marriage. And now, she was terrified of what that little black box might reveal.
“Twenty-three years, two daughters… Was it all for nothing?” The thought circled her mind as her fingers absently scrolled through the menu. No photos. Just a handful of contacts—unnamed numbers labeled only with initials. Then the messages… She froze at the conversation with “A.S.”
*”Tonight at 7, as usual?”* James had written three days ago.
*”Yes, see you then.”* A short reply.
Two days later:
*”Thanks for last night. Everything was perfect.”* From James.
*”Glad you enjoyed. Can you make it tomorrow?”*
*”I’ll try. Emily’s getting suspicious.”*
Emily’s vision darkened. *Her*? Suspicious? She hadn’t even entertained the thought until now! A scalding mix of anger and betrayal flooded her chest. Twenty-three years of trust—shattered just like that?
Downstairs, the front door clicked open. James was home early. Panicked, she shoved the phone into her dressing gown pocket, grabbed the cloth, and pretended to keep dusting.
“Em, love, where are you?” His voice echoed from the hallway.
“In the study,” she called, forcing calm into her voice.
James appeared in the doorway—tall, well-built, in his usual sharp suit. At fifty, he still looked younger than most men his age, still turned heads. Once, that had filled her with pride. Now, it sent a cold sliver of fear down her spine.
“How was your day?” she asked, busily wiping the bookshelf.
“Fine,” he loosened his tie, stretching. “Just knackered. Had a picky client—wasted three hours on him.”
*What client? A.S.?* The question burned on her tongue, but she bit it back.
“You’re home early,” she turned, searching his familiar face for lies.
“Missed you,” he stepped closer, wrapping his arms around her from behind, nuzzling her neck. His usual cologne clung to him, faintly mingled with cigarette smoke—though he’d quit five years ago. The scent stung.
“I’m off for a shower,” he kissed her cheek and left.
Alone again, Emily slumped onto the sofa. What now? Confront him? Spy on him? Or just ask outright? The phone weighed heavily in her pocket. She pulled it out, reopening the messages. Nothing explicit—no confessions of love, no intimate photos. But the secrecy alone spoke volumes.
Dinner passed in tense silence. They ate together, watched a show, talked about the girls—Sophie, their eldest, married with a toddler in Brighton; Lily, finishing university. James acted no different—joking, asking about her day. Nothing suspicious… unless you knew about the phone.
At ten, he disappeared into the shower, and Emily made her move. She dug through his suit jacket—nothing. Checked his briefcase—empty. Then she spotted it: a small business card tucked in the inner pocket. *Amber Stevens*, with a phone number. A.S.
The shower stopped. Emily hurriedly put everything back and slipped into bed, feigning sleep. Her pulse hammered so loudly she was sure he’d hear.
The next morning, she woke before him, studying his sleeping face. The face she’d loved for decades—suddenly foreign. How could he do this? Had their years together meant nothing?
Over breakfast, she finally cracked.
“James… are you happy with me?” Her voice trembled as she stirred sugar into her tea.
He frowned. “Where’s this coming from?”
“Just answer.”
“Course I am,” he covered her hand with his. “Twenty-three years, love. That’s not nothing.”
His touch, once warm, now burned.
“Don’t you ever… want something else? Someone else?”
James’s expression darkened. “Em, what’s going on? You’ve been off since yesterday.”
“Just answer.”
“There *is* no one else,” he said firmly. “You’re my wife. The mother of my children. My best friend. What’s got into you?”
His words sounded sincere. But how could she trust them? The phone burned in her pocket. Amber Stevens’s face haunted her.
“Go on, you’ll be late,” she forced a smile—weak, unconvincing.
As soon as he left, she fished out the phone, reopening the messages. She typed the name from the card. Amber Stevens—a private masseuse. Social media showed a pretty woman in her forties, with bright red hair and a slim figure.
*So that’s your A.S.* Bitter anger rose in her throat.
At lunch, she called her oldest friend, Claire.
“You’ll never believe what I found,” she whispered, voice shaking. “A second phone in James’s study.”
Claire gasped. “No! What was on it?”
Emily spilled everything—the texts, the card, the redhead.
“Oh, Em…” Claire sighed. “I’m so sorry. What’re you going to do?”
“I don’t know,” her voice cracked. “Twenty-three years… I thought we were happy.”
“Maybe there’s an explanation?” Claire offered gently. “Talk to him.”
“And say what? ‘I spied on you and found your secret phone’?”
“Better than living in doubt.”
The call left her more confused than ever. Part of her wanted to scream, to unleash the hurt. But another part—the part that had built a life with him—was terrified of tearing it all down. Maybe there *was* an explanation. But what could justify a secret phone?
That evening, James came home with lilies—her favourite.
“What’s this for?” Her stomach twisted. Guilt flowers?
“No reason,” he kissed her cheek. “Just wanted to cheer you up. You’ve seemed down lately.”
“Have I?” Her smile felt brittle.
Over dinner, they chatted about nothing. The phone in her pocket pulsed like a ticking bomb. Finally, she snapped.
“James, what would you say if I… had a secret phone?”
He choked on his wine. “What?”
“A second phone. For private calls. Messages.”
His frown deepened. “I’d ask why. And who you were talking to.”
Her throat tightened. “What if I said it wasn’t your business?”
“Then I’d think something was wrong,” he set down his fork. “Where’s this coming from, Em?”
Silently, she stood, fetched the phone, and dropped it in front of him.
“I found this in your study. Under the chair. I saw the messages—A.S. I found Amber Stevens’s card in your jacket.”
James’s face went slack. He looked at the phone, then at her, his expression unreadable—*shocked?*
“There it is!” He smacked his forehead. “I’ve been tearing the house apart for this!”
“That’s *all* you have to say?” Her voice shook. “Twenty-three years, James! How could you?”
“What?” He gaped at her. “Wait—you think—?”
“I *know*!” She flung the card at him. “Secret meetings, texts about me suspecting things! That red-haired masseuse—how long has this been going on?”
Then—James laughed. Loud, genuine, wiping tears from his eyes. Emily stared, stunned.
“God, I’m sorry,” he wheezed. “Em, love… it’s not what you think.”
“Then *what is it*?” She crossed her arms.
“Sit down,” he pulled out a chair. “Just… hear me out.”
Reluctantly, she sat.
“Remember last year? My fiftieth?” he began. “You kept asking what I wanted, and I wouldn’t tell you…”
She nodded.
“Truth is, I had a silly dream. A stupid, schoolboy one… I’ve always wanted to learn guitar.”
“*Guitar?*”
“Yeah. Never got round to it. So I thought—half a century old, time to finally do it. Signed up for lessons with a private tutor. Amber Stevens. She teaches music. The massage thing’s a side gigRealizing the depth of his love and the innocence of his secret, Emily burst into laughter through her tears, and as James fumbled through his first clumsy but heartfelt rendition of their wedding song, she knew their love had just found a new, unexpected harmony.
