Chapter 1

Twenty years into our marriage.

The chat thread between my husband Ethan Moore and me had been reduced to nothing but cold numbers.

The screen was filled with nothing but 1s and 2s.

Me: "Working late in the lab tonight?"

Him: "1" — meaning yes.

Me: "Coming home tonight?"

Him: "2" — meaning no.

I'd brainwash myself with the same mantras: he's a genius physicist, he's busy, his career is important.

On our anniversary, I bought lingerie and asked if he'd be coming home that night.

This time, he didn't reply with a number. Instead, he sent a 60-second voice message.

I clicked play. A woman's voice came through:

"Once I'm done feeding Professor Moore, I'll send him home."

"You take care of his daily needs, I take care of his physical desires. Our division of labor is crystal clear."

My hand trembled as I exited the app and drove to the lab.

Through the crack in the door, I saw Ethan working himself like a machine on top of a woman.

Heavy breathing, low moans — like knives carving into my eardrums.

I stood outside in silence for what felt like an eternity before finally knocking.