In a dimly lit office nestled in the back of a worn-down business park in Seattle, Washington, a man sits at a grand mahogany desk. The desk, with its faint scent of polished wood and decades of wear, stands in stark contrast to the clutter of papers and photos scattered across it. His head is bowed, light brown hair falling forward as he sifts through the remnants of another shattered marriage. Another betrayed wife. Another unfaithful husband caught in the act.

The man’s emerald eyes flicker with anger—cheaters were a breed he despised above all else. “All those years in homicide,” he mutters, his voice heavy with bitterness, “and cheaters still manage to get under my skin.” He chuckles darkly, opening a drawer to retrieve a half-full bottle of Lagavulin 16. The amber liquid sloshes as he pours himself a drink, its smoky bitterness a reflection of the unease settling in his chest.

He glances at the clock above the door. 9:00 p.m. Another late night. Another excuse not to go home. “What’s waiting there, anyway?” he murmurs, his thoughts drifting to Rachel. His wife’s distant behavior over the past six months weighs on him, each memory of her cold replies and vacant stares tightening the pit in his stomach. “She’s probably just stressed,” he tells himself, forcing a flicker of hope into his thoughts. “You’ve been together for ten years. She loves you. She has to.”

Finishing the Scotch in a single, burning gulp, Asher rises from his seat. The bitterness lingers, mirroring the questions swirling in his mind.

The townhouse on Bermuda Street is quiet when Asher steps through the front door. The dim glow of a floor lamp in the living room casts warm shadows over the plush dark green couch and the carefully arranged family photos. But the warmth feels hollow, the silence heavy.

Rachel sits on the couch, a glass of wine in hand, her legs tucked under her. The nearly empty bottle on the coffee table tells him she’s drunk. She barely glances up as he enters.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Asher says, his voice light as he forces a smile. “How was your day? I missed you.”

Rachel looks at him with an expression that’s both tired and indifferent. “It was fine. Delaney’s already in bed. You’re late again. Hate being home that much?”

Her words cut deeper than she probably intended. Asher sits down beside her, leaning forward. “Just finishing up a case. Caught the guy cheating. Embezzling money for his new mistress… a real piece of human trash.”

Rachel’s lips curl in a faint, sharp smile. “What about the wife? You know there are always two sides to every story, right?”

The remark ignites something in him. His tone hardens as he replies, “And what reason could the man possibly have to justify lying, cheating, and tearing his family apart?”

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Rachel holds his gaze, her voice quieter but deliberate. “Maybe… she wasn’t fulfilling him. Maybe she didn’t provide the life she promised. There could be a lot of reasons, Asher.”

The words hit him like a blow. He studies her face, searching for meaning behind her calm veneer. Doubt creeps into his thoughts, uninvited and unwelcome. “Maybe you’re right,” he says, forcing the words. “I’ll check on Delaney and shower for bed. Love you.”

“Mhmm,” Rachel murmurs, her eyes drifting back to her wine glass.

Delaney’s room is a small sanctuary of innocence, filled with soft colors and glowing fairy lights. Asher finds his daughter sitting cross-legged on her bed, her favorite book, The Adventures of the Starlight Prince, open in her lap.

“Daddy!” she exclaims, her eyes lighting up. “Please, can you read me a chapter? Just one?”

Asher smiles, his chest tightening with love. “Of course, angel. Let’s see what the Starlight Prince is up to tonight.”

As he reads, Delaney’s small hand rests on his arm, her presence a soothing balm to the turmoil in his mind. By the time she drifts off to sleep, he kisses her forehead and whispers, “I love you, angel. I’ll always protect you.”

Later that night, Asher lies in bed, the glow of the TV casting shifting shadows across the room. Rachel hasn’t joined him. He jolts awake suddenly, his body covered in a cold sweat. The green digits of the alarm clock read 3:10 a.m.

Asher moves quietly through the house, his bare feet soundless on the carpeted stairs. In the living room, Rachel sits on the couch, her phone glowing in her hand. She’s unaware of his presence as she angles the phone to take a photo of herself.

He watches, his breath caught in his chest. A moment later, she sends the photo. His suspicions crystallize. Those pictures aren’t meant for him.

In the days that follow, Asher throws himself into the role of investigator. He scours Rachel’s text records, tracking patterns and piecing together fragments of late-night calls. Every clue tightens the noose of doubt around his heart.

One evening, Rachel announces she’s going out. “Can you watch Delaney tonight?” she asks, her tone casual.

Asher smiles tightly. “Of course. Have fun.”

After Rachel leaves, he makes a call. “Vicky, I need a favor,” he says, his voice low.

Vicky Hayes, his former homicide partner, had been the steady anchor in his stormy career. She answers quickly, her tone sharp. “What’s going on?”

“I need you to watch Delaney for a bit. I’ve got something I need to handle.”

There’s a pause, then a sigh. “Alright, but don’t do anything stupid, Ash.”

The Sunset Inn is a seedy motel on the outskirts of DuPont. Asher sits in Vicky’s borrowed car, watching Rachel enter room 101. His hands tremble on the steering wheel, rage simmering beneath the surface. He waits a moment, then follows.

The door gives way under his forceful kick, slamming open with a deafening crack. Inside, Rachel scrambles to her feet, her face pale. The man—a stranger to Asher—stares wide-eyed as Asher storms toward him.

“What the hell are you—” the man begins, but Asher’s fist silences him. The punch lands with a sickening thud, and the man crumples against the wall.

Asher’s rage takes over, each strike fueled by months of suspicion and betrayal. He doesn’t stop until his knuckles ache, blood smearing his hands. The man slumps, gasping for breath, his face unrecognizable.

“Asher, stop!” Rachel screams, grabbing his arm. “You’re going to kill him!”

He turns to her, his chest heaving. “I’ve seen enough,” he growls.

Rachel reaches for him, tears streaking her face. “Please, just let me explain!”

“No,” he says coldly, stepping back. “I don’t want your lies anymore.”

He walks out into the night, the sound of Rachel’s sobs echoing behind him.