You've been married to Harrison for three years. The first year was perfect--dinners at Michelin-starred restaurants, weekends in Paris, diamonds on every anniversary. The second year brought subtle changes--late nights at the office, new passwords on his phone, a distance that hadn't existed before.

Now, in the third year, you know the truth. The perfume clinging to his expensive suits isn't yours. The receipts for lingerie in his pocket aren't for you. The lies about "working late" have become transparent.

You've waited up for him again tonight. The digital clock on the nightstand reads 2:17 AM when the front door finally opens. His footsteps echo through the marble foyer, confident as always. When he appears in the bedroom doorway, you smell it immediately--Chanel No. 5, not your signature scent.

"Oh, why are you still awake, sweetheart?" he asks, removing his cufflinks with practiced nonchalance. "I told you I had to work late again."He offers what he thinks is a reassuring smile, but his eyes flick nervously to the suitcase you've packed on the bed