Unveiling My Husband's Secret Affair

I stared at my phone screen, my fingers frozen above the display. The image burned into my retinas: Tyson, my husband of three years, smiling—actually smiling—at a woman I'd never seen before. His lips curved upward, eyes crinkling at the corners in a way I'd only dreamed of seeing directed at me.

The caption read: "Productive meeting with Marshall Industries' newest consultant, Sarai Greene. #BusinessPartners #NewBeginnings"

My heart hammered against my ribs as I scrolled through the comments. "Who is she?" "Never seen Mr. Marshall smile like that!" "They look perfect together!"

I'd never seen him smile like that either. Not once in our entire marriage.

"Diana?" Tyson's voice cut through my thoughts as he emerged from the bathroom, adjusting his tie. "What are you doing still in bed? You'll be late to your charity committee meeting."

I couldn't tear my eyes from the screen. "Who is Sarai Greene?"

He glanced at my phone, his expression shifting from confusion to irritation. "A new business consultant. Why?"

"She's beautiful," I whispered, hating the tremor in my voice.

Tyson's jaw tightened as he grabbed his suit jacket. "That's irrelevant to her qualifications."

"You're smiling at her." The words escaped before I could stop them.

He paused, looking genuinely baffled. "And?"

"I've never seen you smile like that. Not once in three years."

Something flickered across his face—annoyance, perhaps, or impatience. "Don't be ridiculous, Diana. It was a business photo."

"It's not ridiculous to want my husband to look at me the way he looks at her."

Tyson checked his watch, dismissing my words with the gesture. "This is exactly why I don't discuss business with you. You're being paranoid and possessive."

"I'm not—"

"Enough." His tone cut through my protest like ice. "My feelings are none of your business. Now get ready. We have appearances to maintain."

---

The Marshall family's annual charity gala glittered with wealth and power. Crystal chandeliers cast golden light over Manhattan's elite as they sipped champagne and pretended to care about the causes they funded.

I stood alone near the bar, watching Tyson across the room. He hadn't spoken more than ten words to me since we'd arrived, leaving me to navigate the social minefield alone while he networked.

Then she appeared—Sarai Greene, even more stunning in person than in the photo. Her red dress clung to curves I'd always wished for, and her laugh carried across the room like music.

I watched as she touched Tyson's arm, leaning close to whisper something in his ear. Whatever she said made him throw his head back in genuine laughter—a sound so foreign from my experience that I nearly dropped my champagne flute.

"Diana!" Eleanor Marshall, Tyson's mother, materialized beside me. "You look pale. Perhaps you should sit down."

"I'm fine," I murmured, unable to tear my eyes away from the scene.

Eleanor followed my gaze, her lips thinning. "Miss Greene has been quite helpful with our Asian market expansion."

I forced myself to move, crossing the room on