My Husband's Master Wasn't Me

"Daniel?" I called out, dropping my keys into the ceramic bowl by the door.

No answer.

I slipped my shoes off and walked into the kitchen. The overhead lights were off, but the room wasn't dark. A bright square of white light illuminated the granite island.

Daniel’s laptop sat open. The screen was awake.

"You never leave this thing unplugged," I muttered.

I stepped closer to close the lid. My hand reached out, but my eyes caught the bold text at the top of the screen. It was a chat interface I didn't recognize. Dark gray background, neon green text bubbles.

"Master R," I read aloud.

I stopped. My hand hovered over the keyboard. I didn't close the lid. I planted my feet on the hardwood floor and read the last seven messages visible on the screen.

**Master R:** *Did you secure the location for next week?*

**Daniel:** *Yes. The hotel is booked. She suspects nothing.*

**Master R:** *Are you sure? Wives have a habit of snooping.*

**Daniel:** *Vera is clueless. She thinks I have a marketing conference.*

**Master R:** *Good boy. Bring the collar. And bring the proof.*

**Daniel:** *I always do.*

**Master R:** *Wednesday will be intense. Prepare her.*

"Prepare her?" I whispered.

My fingers turned to ice. A sharp numbness spread from my chest down to my toes. The sheer confusion vanished, replaced by a cold, heavy dread.

"Wednesday," I said to the empty room. "He said he was flying out Wednesday."

I backed away from the counter. I turned and marched down the hallway toward the study.

I pushed the heavy oak door open. Daniel’s desk sat perfectly organized in the center of the room.

"Where is it?" I asked myself.

I pulled the top drawer open. Pens, sticky notes, paperclips. I slammed it shut.

I yanked the bottom file drawer open. Tax returns and mortgage documents. I reached in and ran my hand along the bottom panel. He always told me this was a spare drawer, empty for my use. But my fingernail caught on a ridge near the back corner.

A false bottom.

I wedged my nail under the wood and popped the thin panel up. A folded piece of printer paper lay flat against the real base of the drawer.

I pulled it out. I smoothed the sharp creases against the edge of the desk.

"United Airlines," I read aloud. "Flight 892."

Departure Date: Next Wednesday.

Destination: Seattle.

"You told me Chicago," I said, my voice barely a rasp.

I scanned the passenger details.

Buyer: Daniel Calloway.

Seat 4A: Daniel Calloway.

Seat 4B: Riley Thorne.

"Riley Thorne." I tested the syllables. I didn't know anyone named Riley.

I flipped the paper over. A blank white surface stared back at me. No hidden notes. No explanations.

I refolded the itinerary, matching the exact creases perfectly. I placed it back into the hidden compartment, pressed the false wood down, and shoved the drawer shut.

I hurried back to the kitchen. The laptop screen cast long