Chapter One

When I lazily open my eyes to the morning sun, it feels good to close them again right away. It's a Saturday, so I am allowed to go to the office a little later.

I slowly turn on my other side to take a peek at my husband, who's still sleeping and snoring occasionally. I don't remember when he arrived home last night, but he wasn't here when I switched off the light on the nightstand. It has happened quite often lately, him coming home after I go to bed. But Sunday usually belongs to the two of us alone, so just one more day to go.

I enjoy the silence, that I can rest my eyes a little more, and only open them again when I feel him move next to me.

"Good morning." His smile is the first thing I see and he places a lazy kiss on my lips.

"Morning," I return the smile.

Us waking up together is just as rare as going to bed together. The honeymoon period of our marriage ended way too soon. We are more like a regular married couple now, who struggle to find time for each other. So we need to cherish the little we manage to steal.

"How about I bring our coffee to bed?" I offer to prolong the moment.

"Yes, please," he begs me and shuts his eyes. He probably slept a lot less than I did.

"When did you come home last night?" I inquire nonchalantly, as I get out of bed to make our morning brew.

"I can't recall," he murmurs and I'm pretty sure he will be asleep by the time I'm back from the kitchen.

I take my time with the coffee for this very reason, I enjoy being able to prepare it without a rush anyway. I also find a box of cookies and put some of them on a plate. It's not exactly breakfast, but we can call it that. Once the tray is ready I walk back to the bedroom, determined to wake up my husband, so he can compliment me for my special housewife skills that he rarely sees any sign of.

"Nice," is all he says before he grabs his black coffee mug, so I place the tray on the sheets between us a bit huffily, due to his short remark.

I reach for my red mug and a cookie and lean back against the headboard, determined to enjoy the moment nevertheless.

"So what should we do tomorrow?" I ask the usual question about the last day of the week.

"I need to get out of town today, and I won't be back until Monday," he replies naturally, ignoring the fact that he never mentioned his plans before.

"Oh, okay," I swallow my objection not to sound too bossy, but feel the need to ask, "Where exactly are you going?"

"A friend is moving and he needs my help," he responds shortly.

"You should have told me in advance, I would have made plans too," I nudge him playfully, pretending not to make a big deal out of it, even though it is kind of a big deal to me.

"You can still make plans," he points out and places his mug back on the tray. "Thanks for the coffee, hon," he kisses my cheek and gets out of bed.

By the time I realize he didn't even touch the cookies he's already in the bathroom, so much about breakfast in bed. I'm left alone with my thoughts instead, and they won't let me rest. Him staying out late so often, then suddenly leaving for two days, I don't really like this turn of events. I haven't really thought about it until now, but something just doesn't feel right.

I try to recall when the late nights started, because there was a time when he was at home long before me, almost every day, and he was the one who complained about me arriving late. How the tables have turned since then, and how I'm only noticing it now. He sometimes mentioned that he was with friends or that it was work, but why does something tell me now that it might be a third option.

I still hear the water running in the shower, so I quickly get out of bed, determined to find answers somewhere and I literally bump into the pile of his clothes next to the bed. When I grab his shirt the unfamiliar scent reaches my nose quickly, but then I notice the lipstick stains that tell me everything I needed to know. The bastard.

When the water stops running, I decide to call him out on it right away to get his immediate reaction.

"Jack?" I shout his name and he must know from the lack of any form of endearment that it's about something serious.

"What's wrong?" I hear his suspicious question and when he appears in the doorway wrapped up in a towel I show him the evidence.

"What is this on your shirt?"