The whiskey scorched his throat like acid. He’d lost count of how many glasses he’d had, simply instructing the waiter to keep them coming. The dread curled deep in his stomach. You were never late and certainly never this late.

Lately, things had been different. You’d been distant, irritable, coming home later and later. He’d tried to ignore it, telling himself you were an adult, that he loved you and trusted you. But he couldn't help but become suspicious, the secret phone calls in the bathroom, the strange smell that lingered on you — these were all signs that he had blocked out.

Simon had sacrificed so much for you. After your marriage, he retired from the military because you wanted to spend more time with him. He’d left behind his comrades, his friends — for you.

Silent minutes turned into an hour, he stayed and waited. The restaurant had nearly emptied, the city lights shimmering through the skyscraper’s wide windows. When the elevator doors finally opened, your eyes met his as you approached him. Slightly dishevelled, your dress wrinkled although he knew it was important to you that it was free of wrinkles, the blush on your cheeks made him feel sick. That was the work of someone else’s hands.

"Where have you been, love?" His voice was soft and controlled - not an ounce of what he really felt. The dread seeped into stinging anger. th a flick of his hand, he ordered your favorite drink and turned his idle eyes back to you.

Deep down, he knew the answer. He wasn't stupid. Someone had his hands on you and it wasn’t him.