Past Love, Present Fear

I woke before dawn, heart fluttering with anticipation. Today wasn't just my birthday—it was our third wedding anniversary. Three years since James and I had promised forever to each other, fifteen years since we'd found each other in that Chicago group home. Two orphans who'd built a life, a love, a business together.

I slipped from bed, careful not to wake James. He stirred slightly, mumbling something in his sleep, his dark hair tousled against the pillow. I pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead before padding barefoot across our Lincoln Park apartment.

The string lights came alive under my fingers, casting a warm glow across our living room. I arranged framed photographs on the mantel—us as awkward teenagers, graduation day at Northwestern, the opening of our marketing firm, our wedding day. Each image a testament to our journey, to everything we'd overcome together.

"Perfect," I whispered, adjusting the last frame.

In the kitchen, I prepared James's favorite Italian dishes—the homemade gnocchi he loved, tiramisu for dessert. The scent of garlic and basil filled our home as I hummed softly, imagining his face when he returned from work.

By afternoon, I slipped into the teal dress I'd bought specially for tonight, the fabric hugging my curves in a way I knew would make James's eyes darken with desire. I applied my makeup carefully, swept my hair into an elegant updo, and spritzed his favorite perfume at my wrists and neck.

Everything was ready. Everything was perfect.

Except James wasn't home.

Six o'clock came and went. Seven. Eight. The candles burned lower, the food grew cold. I checked my phone repeatedly, but there were no messages, no missed calls.

At nine, anxiety gnawing at my stomach, I called his office.

"Mr. Morrison? He left hours ago," his assistant told me, confusion evident in her voice. "Around three, I think."

Six hours. Where had he been for six hours?

With trembling fingers, I opened our shared location app. The little blue dot that represented James blinked steadily at a location downtown—The Langham Hotel.

My chest tightened. A hotel? On our anniversary?

I grabbed my purse and keys, mind racing with possibilities. A surprise, perhaps? A special room booked for our celebration? But why not tell me? Why let me wait, worried and alone?

The taxi ride downtown passed in a blur of city lights and rising dread. At the hotel, I moved through the elegant lobby like a ghost, following the location on my phone to the eleventh floor.

Room 1127. I stood outside, hand raised to knock, when I noticed the door wasn't fully closed. A sliver of light spilled into the hallway.

And then I heard it—James's laugh. Low, intimate. A sound I thought belonged only to me.

I pushed the door open just enough to see inside, my body moving on instinct while my mind screamed at me to stop, to turn away, to preserve the life I thought we had.

James stood by the bed, his shirt unbuttoned,