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Nora's POV The brown cardboard box sat on our kitchen counter like a bomb waiting to detonate. No return address. No postage marks. Just my name printed in neat, block letters that made my stomach do this weird flip-thing it only does when I know something is about to go very, very wrong. If there were a Federal Bureau of Terrible Omens, this package would be their mascot. I set down my coffee mug. The ceramic clicked against the granite counter, and the sound was so loud in the silent house that I actually flinched. Julian was in the shower, which meant I had approximately fifteen minutes of privacy left before he emerged in nothing but a towel, looking like something sculpted by a horny Greek god with a very specific aesthetic. I grabbed the box cutter from the drawer. Sliced through the tape. Folded back the flaps. Inside sat a single USB drive—matte black, unmarked, the kind you'd buy in bulk at an electronics store for five dollars. "What parallel universe sends me unmarked tech?" I muttered to the empty kitchen. The smart thing would have been to throw it away. Or hand it to the police. Or burn it in our backyard fire pit while chanting protective spells. I plugged it into my laptop. The folder that popped up contained forty-three photographs and one video file. My cursor hovered over the first image for approximately three seconds—a lifetime of hesitation compressed into a single breath—and then I double-clicked. The photograph opened. My brain refused to process what I was seeing for a full five seconds. It was like looking at one of those optical illusions where the image shifts depending on how you squint. Except this wasn't a duck turning into a rabbit. This was my husband. This was Julian. My Julian. The man I'd married six months ago in a ceremony that had made his very Catholic mother cry actual tears of joy. The man who had looked me dead in the eyes on our wedding night and told me I was his first. His only. "This is impossible," I whispered. In the photo, Julian was younger—maybe twenty, twenty-one—with his dark hair longer and his jawline softer. He was naked. Completely, utterly, violently naked. And he wasn't alone. A woman with red hair straddled his lap while another man stood behind her, hands wrapped around her throat. Three other figures occupied the background of the shot, all of them engaged in various acts that made my lungs forget how to expand. The photo screamed amateur production—the lighting was terrible, the angle unflattering, the furniture looked like it had been salvaged from a frat house dumpster. I clicked to the next photo. Then the next. My fingers had gone numb, operating on autopilot while my brain ran in frantic circles like a dog chasing its own tail. In every image, Julian was there. Sometimes with one partner. Sometimes with two. In photo thirty-seven, he had his face buried between a blonde woman's thighs while another man— I slammed the laptop lid down. The silence in the kitchen became a physical weight, pressing against my eardrums until I could hear my own heartbeat. Thump. Thump. Thump. He told me I was his first. The memory surfaced without permission—our wedding night, the hotel room in Bora Bora, the way he'd trembled when I touched him. "I've never done this before," he'd said, voice rough. "I've been waiting for you." And like an idiot—like the biggest, most gullible idiot in the entire universe—I had believed him. I had felt special. I had felt chosen. Had every word been a lie? Every touch? Every whispered confession of love? I reopened the laptop. My hands were shaking now—not the delicate tremor of anticipation, but the full-body quake of someone whose reality had been rug-pulled out from under them. I needed to understand. I needed to see how deep this went. The video file sat at the bottom of the folder, labeled simply: "IMG_4827.mp4" My finger clicked the trackpad. The video opened on a dimly lit room—some kind of apartment, from what I could see. Bodies moved across the screen in a tangle of limbs and sweat and sounds that made my stomach clench. The camera work was shaky, handheld, like someone had been walking through the scene capturing whatever caught their eye. And there, in the center of the frame, was Julian. He had some woman bent over the arm of a couch, her back arched, her mouth open in this pantomime of ecstasy that looked fake even through the pixelated resolution. "Fuck, you're tight," Video Julian said, and the words were so wrong coming from that familiar face that I actually gagged. On screen, another man approached and the woman reached for him, pulling him closer. "That's it, baby," the man said. "Take it all." The language was vulgar—nasty, in the way Julian had never been with me. My Julian was gentle. Considerate. He asked permission before he touched me and always made sure I was comfortable. Video Julian grabbed the woman's hair and yanked her head back. "You like that?" he growled. "You like being our little fucking toy?" My throat burned. The scene continued—a writhing, grunting, utterly debasing display that I couldn't look away from. It was like driving past a car accident; you know you shouldn't look, but your eyes betray you every time. Julian moved from partner to partner, eager and shameless, his younger face twisted in this expression of pure, carnal pleasure I had never seen directed at me. Not once. Not ever. On screen, someone laughed. "This fucking slut can't get enough." Video Julian smiled—this wicked, confident smile I didn't recognize—and said, "She's not the only one." I didn't understand. How could I have been so wrong about him? About us? About everything we'd built together in the past year? The water shut off upstairs. I froze, my eyes locked on the screen where Video Julian was now doing something that made the woman scream fuck, yes, don't stop over and over again. Footsteps on the stairs. My fingers wouldn't move. My body had become a statue, paralyzed by the weight of my own devastation. I should have closed the laptop. Should have hidden the USB drive. Should have done something other than sit there with my heart trying to beat its way out of my chest. The bedroom door opened behind me. "Nora?" Julian's voice was warm, curious. I could hear the smile in it without turning around. "What are you watching, babe?" I couldn't answer. Couldn't breathe. He appeared in my peripheral vision—damp from the shower, a towel wrapped low around his hips, his dark hair falling across his forehead. Julian Thorne, the man I had promised to spend my life with. His gaze moved to the laptop screen. I watched his face transform. The smile vanished first, replaced by this blank mask that I'd never seen before. His jaw tightened. His throat moved as he swallowed hard. For one infinite moment, neither of us moved. "What the fuck is this?" His voice was barely a whisper. But the worst part? The absolute, devastating worst part? He didn't sound confused. He sounded caught. Julian lunged for the laptop.

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