AMELIA had not planned to check Charles’s phone.
It was one of those quiet afternoons when the house seemed to breathe slowly, sunlight filtering through the curtains, the ticking wall clock loud in its steadiness. Charles had stepped into the kitchen to get a cup of milk, leaving his phone on the arm of the couch where he had been sitting with her moments earlier. Amelia sat there, flipping through a magazine, pretending not to notice it.
But cheating had a way of planting seeds that refused to stay buried. Right?
She glanced at the phone once. Then again.
Her heart thudded, not with suspicion exactly, but with fear. Fear born from experience. From wounds that never truly healed. Slowly, almost reluctantly, she reached for it. The screen lit up easily; she knew his passcode because he
