Chapter 4

I tossed the phone onto the driver’s seat, pretending to be angry.

Chloe immediately spoke up.

“What’s wrong, Mrs. Summers? Why are you so upset?”

Oh? Playing dumb?

I snorted and put on a convincing performance.

“Some little tramp is messaging my husband, trying to seduce him.”

“He saved her as ‘Sweetheart.’ I’ll be having a word with him when we get home.”

My embellishment worked beautifully. Chloe took the bait.

She grabbed my hand as if we were the closest of friends.

“Oh, honey. Your husband’s so handsome and successful. I’m sure plenty of women want him. Just a friendly warning—you need to be careful.”

She might as well have put on a name tag.

I hummed and said nothing else.

Just then, my husband returned with the cake. He put it in the back seat and hurried into the car.

Out of nowhere, I said, “Babe, let’s take Chloe to room 3602 at the Hilton.”

Chloe clearly hadn’t expected that.

In the mirror, I watched her smile become increasingly strained.

“What are you talking about, Mrs. Summers?”

“I’m not going to the Hilton.”

“Oh?”

“Really? Didn’t you say you were going to the Hilton in the group chat?”

As her face grew paler, I decided not to push any further.

“Never mind. We’ll take you home.”

I asked for her address, and my husband and I dropped her off at the entrance to her apartment complex.

In the end, Chloe forced out a thank-you before scurrying away with her tail between her legs.

On the way home, I read her messages aloud to my husband, word for word.

After every line, he pretended to gag and called her a manipulative bitch.

I clutched the phone, laughing so hard I could barely breathe.

Sometimes I thought my husband was hilariously clueless. Who saved someone under such a brutally honest name without worrying they might see it?

Other times, his ability to see through women like Chloe made me think he really did know a thing or two.

We sat down at the dining table with a little blue-and-white cake in front of us.

It was our ninth anniversary.

We’d gotten together at twenty-two. Now we were both thirty-one.

A full ten years older than Chloe.

And yet we still had to play her little game, because she’d shamelessly staged another performance that only made her more obvious.

I refreshed Instagram and found a pouty selfie from Chloe.

The caption read: “Every day feels like summer when you’re loved.”

My husband’s name was Ryan Summers.

That Instagram post was clearly meant to give everyone on her friends list the wrong idea.

As far as I was concerned, was that supposed to be a challenge?

Impressed by her sheer nerve, I raised an eyebrow and liked it.