At half past four in the morning, Alina woke to the sound of the bedroom door next to hers opening and closing softly. Daniel’s room, which Alina rarely entered. Her husband had just come home and gone straight to his own room without knocking on her door, without making sure she was still breathing.

As usual.

Alina stared at the still-dark ceiling of her room, listening to the sound of Daniel’s footsteps on the other side of the wall. So close—separated by only one wall—but it felt like they were on different continents.

The sound of the shower turned on. Daniel was washing away the fatigue of his long day, while she—his wife—lay alone, no more important than the furniture in this house.

Alina couldn’t fall back asleep. Something pushed her to get up—maybe masochism, maybe the need to know the truth she already suspected.

She got up, put on a thin cardigan, and walked out of her room quietly. The hallway was dark and silent. Daniel’s bedroom door was tightly closed, the sound of the shower still audible from inside.

Alina’s heart pounded as her hand touched the doorknob. This was her husband’s room. She was his wife. She had the right to enter. But five years of marriage had taught her that certain rights had never truly belonged to her.

Alina turned the knob slowly. Unlocked. The door opened soundlessly.

Daniel’s room was neat and minimalist—like a hotel room, not the room of someone living in his own home. No photos. No personal touches. As if he was ready to leave at any moment.

Daniel’s suit jacket hung on the back of a chair. His white shirt was thrown on the edge of the bed.

Alina stepped closer, something pulling her—an instinct telling her she wouldn’t like what she was about to find, but she had to know.

The scent of perfume.

Not Daniel’s usual cologne—the cedar wood and bergamot scent Alina knew by heart because she chose it for him every year. This was different. Sweeter. Feminine. Floral with a hint of vanilla.

Alina lifted the shirt with trembling hands. And there, on the perfect white collar—a lipstick stain. A nude pink color that stood out against the white fabric.

Something broke in Alina’s chest. Not dramatically. Not loudly. Just a crack. Like a small crack in crystal glass that slowly spread across its entire surface.

Five years. Five years she’d been a faithful wife, who never looked at another man, who poured all her love into one man. And that man came home with the scent of another woman’s perfume and lipstick marks on his collar.

“Alina?”

Daniel’s voice made Alina startle. The man stood in the bathroom doorway with a towel wrapped around his waist, wet hair dripping, his gaze—surprised? Angry? Or just annoyed?

“What… are you doing in my room?” Not ‘darling’ or ‘Alina, what’s wrong?’ But a question that sounded like he’d found a stranger entering without permission.

Alina held up the shirt, her hand trembling but her eyes not looking away from Daniel. “This. I found this.”

Daniel looked at the shirt in Alina’s hand, then his eyes—just briefly—showed something. Guilt? Or just irritation at being caught?

“Alina, this isn’t what you think.”

“Then what is it?” Her voice surprised her—calm, too calm. “You came home at half past four in the morning smelling of another woman’s perfume with lipstick on your shirt collar. Please tell me, Daniel, what should I be thinking?”

Daniel rubbed his face—a gesture of frustration. “Yesterday was a welcome party for Clarissa. The event went late. There was a small incident. Someone spilled wine on her dress. She panicked and I was just helping to calm her down. She hugged me. That’s all.”

Clarissa. Of course.

“Welcome party.” Alina repeated the words slowly, tasting each syllable like poison on her tongue. “So the important event you mentioned yesterday—the event that was more important than our anniversary—was a welcome party for your ex-wife?”

Daniel fell silent. His face changed—from defensive to blank. Like someone who’d just been slapped by reality.

VERIFYCAPTCHA_LABELVerify