For two long weeks, I played a dangerous psychological game. I kissed Gregory goodbye in the morning, smiled through dinner at night, and quietly monitored the live feeds on my phone whenever an alert popped up.
The first major blow came on a sunny Thursday afternoon. My phone buzzed with a motion alert from the master bedroom. I pulled up the live stream from the clinic breakroom, my heart hammering against my ribs.
There she was. The blonde woman—whose name, as I soon learned from their whispered conversations, was Chloe. She was lounging on our bed, wearing my favorite white silk robe. Gregory walked in a moment later, handed her a glass of wine, and leaned down to kiss her. They laughed about how easy it was to fool me, mocking my dedication to my clinic work.
