"Wow! Jiji, your cooking is simply divine!"

"Jiji, your latte art is becoming more impressive by the day! Any recommendations for beans recently? I want to try grinding and brewing some at home!"

"Your husband is so lucky to have your meals every day (drooling). I wish I could come over and share a meal at your place!"

...

Emily, growing increasingly anxious, scrolled through past posts, examining every comment.

Every remark from the user with the ID "Most Beautiful Fireworks" was swiftly screenshotted without a second thought.

This person was the very girl who had just gotten into Anderson's car.

Her real name was Sophia, though Emily couldn't remember the exact year she was born. All she knew was that Sophia was a recent graduate who had interned at Anderson's company during her senior year and was hired full-time after graduation.

Feeling a lump in her throat, Emily forced herself to swallow in an attempt to ease the discomfort.

It barely helped.

The sky was gloomy, but the streetlights had yet to turn on.

The white light from the phone screen reflected off Emily's glasses, moving rapidly, like shards of broken shells, their sharp edges scraping Michael's eyes.

The furrow between his brows had remained since their time at the parking lot.

"I was so foolish... Because we knew each other 'privately,' I always liked her comments."

Emily let out a bitter laugh. "Friend, yes, I even considered her a friend."

Remembering something, she opened Sophia's WeChat and started scrolling.

Sophia would occasionally ask her questions about cooking or baking. Just last month, Sophia had asked for advice on cooking a meal for her boyfriend, unsure about the sequence of a few dishes, so she turned to Emily.

At that time, Emily already knew about her husband's infidelity, but she had been so focused on Amanda, the "clear target," that she overlooked other suspicious details.

Looking back now, the dishes Sophia had asked about were all ones that Anderson enjoyed, dishes Emily had mentioned in her posts and moments.

And back then, Emily had earnestly guided Sophia on how to prepare them.

Emily's glasses kept slipping down her nose today. She pushed them up and glanced at the familiar street name on the road sign ahead.

She asked Michael, "Do you know where this road leads?"

Michael paused for a moment before answering, "Yes, to your home."

A light laugh came from beside her, as soft as petals falling.

After a whole day in the car, Emily felt weary. Leaning against the door, she spoke hoarsely, "No, it’s almost not my home anymore."

The child’s watch, on “listening” mode that afternoon, drained quickly. When the battery dropped to 10%, the software chimed, "You have arrived home."

Michael scoffed. That scoundrel sure knew how to manage his time.

No matter his purpose for bringing someone home, the act of bringing another woman into his house already constituted infidelity, a stain Anderson could never wash clean, even if he jumped into the Emerald River.

There might even be others besides this woman...

The passenger seat was too quiet. At this moment, Emily had reverted to her soft, bun-like self, the filling seemingly cold.

She didn’t suggest the next course of action, leaving Michael at a loss.

This was an issue between Emily and Anderson, making him a complete “outsider.”

He sighed, circled around the neighborhood for a while, then found a place to park.

"What do you plan to do?" Michael directly expressed his stance, "If you want to go upstairs, I'll accompany you."

At this point, he couldn't let Emily face the mess alone. Outnumbered, she was at a disadvantage, and a cornered man could do anything.

Emily remained leaning against the door, her head resting on the window, fingers tapping the edge of her phone without a word.

But she didn’t keep Michael waiting long. Straightening up, she raised her hand, pointing to a high-rise building diagonally ahead, "Could you drive there, please?"

If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

Following her pointing finger, Michael saw the tall building with a large golden sign in the middle: "Metropolitan Apartments."

Emily’s voice remained calm, "I rented a short-term apartment there."

The short-term rental was actually a serviced apartment. As they rode the elevator to the eighteenth floor, Michael asked Emily how much she paid and for how long.

During the summer peak season, the rate was slightly higher at 450 per night, but since Emily rented it for half a month, the landlord gave her a rate of 410 per night.

On the shoe cabinet in the entryway, the considerate landlord had left a "Guest Guide" and a "Guestbook."

Michael, changing into dark blue men's slippers, casually flipped through a few pages of the guestbook. There were many entries, with guests expressing gratitude, offering suggestions, or using it to express love to their travel companions, hoping to visit Eldoria again together.

Emily's beige slippers tapped softly as she pulled her suitcase into the room. When she came out, she found Michael still standing by the door. Like a host, she invited him in, "Come in and have a seat."

Michael scratched his itchy nose, responded with an "oh," and stepped into the unfamiliar small space.

The apartment was modest, with one bedroom and one living room.

At the entrance, a small white table pressed against the wall faced the kitchen, suitable for dining. Beside the kitchen was the bathroom, and a few steps further was the bedroom.

At the other end of the living room, a fabric sofa and a low coffee table were set, along with a mini balcony. Emily opened the floor-to-ceiling windows to let in some fresh air, the high-rise breeze billowing the sheer curtains.

In the corner stood a traveler’s palm, its verdant leaves adding life to the confined space. As Michael sat on the sofa, he touched it secretly—it was an artificial plant.

The air conditioner had just been turned on, leaving the room still stifling. Michael inexplicably felt a burning sensation, particularly a few inches below his chest, as if on fire.

Although they had spent the entire day in that small car, a space far more uncomfortable than this apartment, Michael found the current atmosphere even stickier.

Sweat trickled down the back of his neck. He grabbed a tissue from the coffee table and wiped it off.

Emily returned to the room and soon emerged with a tripod and a DSLR, its lens long like a cannon.

The setup was too professional; even the FBI didn't use such long lenses, more suited for birdwatching in the wild.

Michael got up and followed her to the balcony, standing with his hands on his hips behind her. Watching her set up the tripod with a semblance of expertise, he chuckled wryly, “How long have you been planning this?”

“I rented this place a few days ago and got the telephoto lens yesterday because the distance was too great. I tried using my phone, but the pictures were blurry.”

At this point, Emily did not hide anything from him. It was her little "secret."

Michael asked softly, “Was it because Anderson refused to install a digital peephole?”

Emily, placing the camera on the tripod according to the pre-made markings on the balcony railing, did not look back, “Yes, but even before that, I noticed my things had been tampered with.”

Michael's eyebrows twitched, “What things?”

He had heard stories about cheating husbands who, when their wives were away, brought their mistresses home, the mistresses brazenly using the wife’s skincare products, carrying her bags, wearing her clothes...

Emily replied, “It was also last weekend when I went to Fengcheng and came home quite late...”

Michael chimed in, “Oh, I remember, a friend of yours was opening a café.”

Emily paused and finally glanced at him, “How do you know that?”

When they added each other on WeChat, she didn’t know if he was friend or foe, so she hadn’t granted him access to her Moments, and it remained so.

Michael stammered suddenly, “You posted it in your status.”

“...Oh, you’ve been following my updates?”

Michael averted his gaze, “Ah, go on with your story. You came home late last weekend, then what?”

Emily rolled her eyes at him.

With the camera set up, she bent down, looking through the viewfinder to find the direction, “That night when I got home, I found the positions of my frying pan and saucepan swapped.”

“What? What pans?” Michael didn’t understand.

“Just two pans.” Emily slowly panned the lens, explaining briefly, “Since you follow my updates, you should know I have a lot of cookware, arranged according to my own habits. I was out all day, and when I came back, the positions of two pans had changed… The cutlery was also different, but the pans were the most obvious; I could see it at a glance.”

She licked her lips and continued, “Anderson doesn’t cook. That night, he said he had to go out for dinner and didn’t eat at home. Until this evening, I thought it was Miss Amanda who had been in my kitchen. I was wrong.”

Michael understood and chuckled softly, “She’s the type who would mix up sugar and salt, not as capable as you.”

The straightforward compliment made Emily’s earlobes burn. Just then, she found her “target” in the viewfinder.

Keeping the camera steady, she slowly straightened, pressing a button to illuminate the screen.

What the naked eye could not see could be revealed through certain means.

The telephoto lens was trained on an apartment across several lanes of traffic. The building was roughly the same height as their own, perhaps slightly taller. Through the camera screen, two square, transparent windows framed a bright yellow light. No security bars, no blackout curtains, and a woman busy by the window.

In today's world, everyone's secrets are like paper lanterns, easily pierced.

The difference lies only in whether your lantern breaks first or mine, nothing more.

Emily quickly set up the wireless remote, inexplicably exhilarated, like an eager student proving her capability to the teacher. She demonstrated to Michael, snapping several photos, her tone brimming with pride, “Wasn't it clever of me to think of this?”

The expensive telephoto lens proved its worth, capturing Sophia’s face clearly even in the dim light.

Michael's throat itched as if ants were crawling over it, his voice growing somber with the night, “How did you know… this apartment had a view of your kitchen?”

“I spend all my time in the kitchen. Standing at the sink, I can see this building.”

Emily spoke casually, “Sometimes, while waiting for the soup to boil, ribs to stew, or bread to bake… I’d sit on a chair and zone out, then noticed that many units here are short-term rentals. The guests on the balconies change every few days.

“I didn't have access to spy cameras and almost got scammed for one. I even considered a drone, tried it at DJI, but it was too loud. I bought several home surveillance cameras, but they were too conspicuous and easily discovered, so I gave up. Finally, I thought of this method…”

Her earlier excitement was doused like a splash of ice water.

Emily’s voice grew softer, “I know, it’s not clever at all, it's foolish.”

So foolish to be kept in the dark by Anderson for so long.

So foolish not to notice Sophia’s odd behavior.

So foolish to have initially aimed at Amanda—Emily’s original plan was to give the photos to Michael, saying, “Mr. Michael, here’s the evidence.”

Suddenly, a large hand reached out from beside her.

Her body instinctively wanted to dodge, but it was too late, Emily didn’t move in time.

The hand gently landed, soothingly stroking her hair like comforting a child.

The man's voice, warm and humid like a summer evening breeze, carried an ambiguous emotion, “No, Jiji, you’re amazing.”