wenty-eight years. I’d been married to Lauren for twenty-eight years, and apparently, she had another husband at work.

Frank pressed the elevator button, pulled out his phone, and started scrolling. Every instinct I had screamed at me to confront him, to walk over there and ask him what the hell he thought he was doing calling himself my wife’s husband. To make a scene, to demand answers. But something stopped me. Maybe it was the way the security guard had said it, so casual, so certain, like it was common knowledge. Like everyone knew. Everyone except me.