The Secret in Her Second Phone

My wife was six months pregnant and insisted on going on a business trip out of town. I begged her not to go, for the sake of our child. My wife reassured me, saying the more she earned now, the easier my life would be. As I helped her pack her lingerie bag, a spare phone Id never seen before fell out. The screen flickered, displaying a private message.

Youre such a pervert, cant you even stop when youre pregnant?

I stared at the contact name for five seconds. Then I remembered: that name was Master. And I was Good Guy.

The bathroom door opened. I frantically shoved the spare phone back into the bottom of her suitcase, covering it tightly with clothes. Steam billowed out. Summer, wrapped in a towel, her face flushed pink from the heat, had very fair skin. Shed gained some weight since her pregnancy, her cheeks a rosy hue. By all appearances, she was a glowing expectant mother, immersed in happiness. She walked over, reaching out to touch my forehead.

Whats wrong? You look awful.

I instinctively recoiled a step, avoiding her hand. Summer's hand froze in mid-air, a flicker of confusion in her eyes. "Didn't sleep well," I managed, forcing a smile uglier than a grimace. "Had a nightmare last night, worried you wouldn't be able to handle the stress."

Summer sighed in relief, withdrawing her hand, and playfully rolled her eyes at me. "I told you I'd be fine. That client is really understanding. You're more nervous than I am." She sat on the bed and began to towel dry her hair. Looking at her swollen belly, that thorn in my heart twisted again. Five years of love, she was my wife, carrying my child. I still clung to hope, wanting to give her one last chance. If she could turn back now, for the sake of the baby, perhaps I could pretend I hadnt seen that phone.

Wife, do you really have to go? I knelt before her, looking up, my voice already tinged with pleading. Im not afraid of hard work. I can deliver food, drive ride-shares. Just stay home and focus on your pregnancy, and Ill endure any hardship. I looked into her eyes. Please, dont go. Can you?

Summers hand stilled on her hair. She lowered her gaze and sighed. Darling, Ive already signed the contract with the client. If I breach it now, Ill have to pay triple the penalty. She tugged at the towel wrapped around her, shifting her posture to reveal part of her calf. I stared there. Just above her knee, there was a coin-sized bruise.

For the past two months, shed always locked the bathroom door, not even letting me in when I brought fresh clothes. And on the rare occasions her arms and legs were visible, there were always inexplicable bruises. Last week, it was her inner left thigh. The week before, her arm. Each time I asked, my heart aching, she had a perfect explanation.

The bathroom was slippery, I accidentally bumped into something.

I hit the corner of the office desk. You know pregnant women are clumsy.

I believed her, my heart breaking for her. I covered the entire bathroom floor with non-slip mats. I bought dozens of feet of corner protectors, covering all the sharp edges of our furniture. I wished I could turn myself into a ball of cotton and wrap her inside.

Now it seemed, I was indeed a ball of cotton. A rotting piece of cotton, casually kneaded and used to wipe someones backside. What kind of bump would perfectly land on the inner thigh? What kind of fall would result in bruises that looked like they were forcefully squeezed by fingers?

I stared at her calf, my stomach churning. Summer seemed to notice my gaze and pulled the towel down to cover her leg. She walked over, naturally draped her arms around my neck, carrying the pleasant scent of her shower gel. She buried her face in my neck, rubbing it gently. Darling, help me blow dry my hair, please. Im leaving first thing in the morning, and I want you to spend more time with me.

Yesterday, I would have considered it a sweet burden. Now, I felt only revulsion, every hair on my body standing on end. I rigidly picked up the hairdryer, my fingers running through her hair. The hot air roared, masking my ragged breathing.

In her eyes, what was I? A sugar daddy providing a paycheck and a stable life?

How many days will you be gone this time? I turned off the hairdryer, my voice so cold it even scared myself.

Three days. Ill be back Sunday. Summer turned around, wrapping her arms around my waist, her face pressed against my lower abdomen. Ill miss you, and Ill miss the baby too.

I also thought of that child. Six months old. Was it my child? Once that thought arose, it could no longer be suppressed.

That client, male or female? I tried to make my tone sound casual, turning to fold clothes.

A man, an old man in his fifties, quite verbose, Summer complained, standing up to get a storage bag. My heart leapt into my throat. She opened the bag, checked it, but didn't rummage to the bottom. These few sets are maternity-specific, very comfortable to wear, she muttered to herself, sealing the bag and placing it in the suitcase.

I turned to pour water, no longer looking into her eyes, afraid I wouldnt be able to resist slapping her. "Darling, did you pack that bottle of stretch mark oil for me? Ill need it there too." She smiled, walked over, and hugged me from behind, her hand caressing her belly. "The baby just kicked, do you want to feel it?" Her chest pressed against my back. But I felt not a trace of warmth, only the sensation of a venomous snake coiled behind me.

She lied, without a flicker of hesitation, words tumbling out easily. This level of psychological composure wasn't developed overnight. I gripped the water glass, my knuckles white. "Yes, I'll miss you," I said, taking a sip of water. What I swallowed, though, was a mouthful of bitterness. "Get some sleep. You have an early flight tomorrow." I broke free from her embrace, got into bed, and lay down with my back to her. That night, I listened to the breathing beside me, my eyes wide open until dawn. In these five years, what else had she been hiding from me? What had she truly been doing on her "business trips"?

At six in the morning, Summer got up. She put on a light layer of makeup, saying she needed to look well-rested for clients. She wore a loose trench coat that concealed her baby bump, giving her a somewhat youthful appearance. I stood on the balcony, watching her drag her suitcase out the door. "Darling, I'm off. I'll text you when I arrive. You make sure to eat properly at home." She changed her shoes in the entryway, turning back to blow me a kiss. I leaned against the doorframe, expressionless, and nodded. "Be careful on the road."

The moment the door closed, I grabbed my car keys and rushed out. I had already taken the day off from work; even if the sky fell, I wasn't going in. To avoid being discovered, I didn't take my usual SUV. I borrowed my neighbor Old Man Greg's beat-up van, claiming I needed to help relatives move some goods.

Summer didn't take the subway. Instead, she hailed a taxi outside the complex. I trailed far behind, maintaining a two-car length distance. The taxi got onto the elevated highway, but its direction wasn't towards the airport. My hands clenched the steering wheel, knuckles white from the strain. I recognized this road; it led to the city's most exclusive wealthy district.

Half an hour later, the taxi stopped outside "The Summit," a private club. I knew this place; it operated on a membership basis, with annual fees starting in the tens of thousands. Rumor had it, it offered every kind of service and boasted excellent privacy. Summer got out of the taxi but didn't go straight in. She stood at the entrance, looking left and right, then pulled out her phone to send a message. I parked my van under the shade of a tree across the street, rolling down my window a crack. Even from a distance, I could clearly see the expectant, excited expression on her face.

Less than two minutes later, the club doors opened. A tall man in a black suit emerged. The moment Summer saw him, she ran over, completely disregarding her six-month pregnancy. She skillfully linked her arm with his. His hand immediately wrapped around Summer's waist. Summer giggled, playfully punching his chest, pressing herself even closer. I sat in the car, feeling all the blood rush to my head. I grabbed my phone from the passenger seat and frantically pressed the shutter button, taking pictures of them.

Who was that man? I could barely make out his face.

We first met five years ago on a stormy night, outside a convenience store. She had been evicted by her landlord for unpaid rent, huddled in a corner, soaking wet. I brought her back to my ten-square-meter rental apartment under my umbrella. That night, I cooked a bowl of noodles. She held the bowl, drinking every last drop of soup. She looked up, her eyes red-rimmed, filled with dependence. "Alex, will you let me be your wife from now on? We'll stay together forever."

When I got my paycheck, I bought her roasted sweet potatoes from a street vendor. She broke one in half and fed it to me, her lips smudged with black ash, her eyes curved like crescent moons as she smiled. That was Summer when she was with meinnocent, poor, but with a light in her eyes. She sat on the back of my electric scooter, her face pressed against my back, her arms wrapped around my waist. "Alex! I want to be with you forever!"

Married for three years, together for five, I had pampered her like a princess. I handed over my entire paycheck, did all the housework, and never missed a holiday gift. We traveled to every corner of the country. After she got pregnant, she had some swelling, so I massaged her for half an hour every night. When she craved spicy and sour noodles from the east side of town in the middle of the night, I drove out to buy them without a word. I held her in the palm of my hand, yet she trampled me underfoot.

I didn't understand, truly didn't understand. Was I not good to her? Why had Summer become like this?

Just as they were about to enter, I typed, "Wife, are you at the airport yet? Have you checked in?"

Less than a minute after I sent the message, she replied. It was a photo of her in an airplane seat. Outside the window were blue skies and white clouds. She held a glass of orange juice, her face bare of makeup. If I weren't right outside the club, I would have absolutely believed it. The photo was clearly Photoshopped or an old one from her gallery.

Then came a voice message. I opened it, and her sickly sweet voice made my scalp crawl. "Just sat down. Baby just kicked me. Darling, make sure you eat well." She whispered, "Signal's bad, I'm turning off my phone. I'll contact you when I land."

I listened to that voice message, again and again. While she was wrapped around another man, she was still soothing the fool at home. Did she feel a sense of accomplishment, playing two men in the palm of her hand? I scoffed, a cold, bitter sound. But tears, disobedient, streamed down my face. I wiped my face and picked up the tracking software on that spare phone again. Last night, while she was asleep, I had installed a hidden GPS tracker on it. I hadn't dared to look at the chat logs, afraid I would lose control and choke her on the spot. Even if she was just flirting online, for the sake of the child, I could play blind.

The red dot flickered. It showed her location as this very building directly in front of me. Moving quickly, the red dot finally stopped on the 8th floor.

Security at "The Summit" was very tight, with two burly men standing at the entrance. Without a membership card, there was no way in. I staked out the entrance for half an hour. Finally, a small delivery truck carrying groceries pulled up and stopped at the back door. Several uniformed workers were moving crates of seafood and liquor towards the back entrance. The foreman was talking to the guard, pointing at a manifest in his hand.

While the guard was checking the delivery note, I quickly grabbed a worker's uniform hanging on a nearby chair. I swiftly put it on, picked up what looked like the lightest box of vegetables, and, keeping my head down, followed the team. "Hey, new guy, hustle up!" the foreman in front yelled back, not noticing I was an impostor.

I blended into the back kitchen access, and when no one was looking, I put down the box and slipped into the fire escape. Avoiding surveillance cameras, I climbed the fire escape floor by floor. The GPS on my phone showed Summer on the 8th floor. By the time I reached the 8th floor, I was drenched in cold sweat.

I pressed myself against the wall, listening to the sounds coming from each room. Until I reached the door of room 888. That red dot was right there, perfectly coinciding with my location.