Morning arrived quickly, the weight of my new reality pressing down on me, a voyeur, a sleazy spy lurking in the shadows of my own marriage. It was a life I felt I hadn’t chosen but had been forced into, dragged there by suspicion, betrayal, and the desperate need for answers. I was awakened not by the 6:00 AM alarm I had set, but by the familiar chime of my phone, the app alerting me to motion detected by the hidden camera in the master bedroom.
Denise moved through her morning routine, preparing for practice as if golf were still her full-time job. She clung to that ritual like a lifeline, as if sticking to it could somehow shield her from the truth she refused to confront, that her career was over. Oblivious to the reality that had already closed in around us, she carried on. The illusion held, but it wouldn’t for much longer, not once we faced the difficult conversation we both seemed so desperate to avoid.
As I got up and began to get dressed, my gaze kept drifting back to the phone screen, where Denise moved back and forth between the bedroom and the closet. Eventually, she returned into view wearing the same pink Nike golf shirt she had worn in the hidden dungeon of our VRBO, the same one that had hung in her closet all week, taunting me with each pass. The fabric hugged her torso, and the khaki skirt she paired it with clung to her hips as she zipped it up and smoothed it down with both hands. The hem rested just at the sharp tan lines on her thighs, the divide between bronzed and pale skin unmistakable. She gave the waistband a final adjustment before walking past the camera again, likely heading back to the bathroom mirror for a quick check.
I made my way downstairs to the hotel lobby, backpack slung over one shoulder, and sank into one of the leather chairs near the entrance, waiting for my Uber. My thoughts weren’t on the meetings ahead; they were on Denise. If everything went as scheduled, I’d be back at the hotel just as she was finishing her grueling eight-hour practice session and arriving home. But something about today felt off, as if predictability had been quietly erased.
The day dragged on, filled with boring meetings in stuffy conference rooms, endless spreadsheets, and discussions of financial reports that all blurred together. But the real weight pressing down on me wasn’t work, it was the phone in my pocket. Every time it vibrated, a rush of anxiety hit, and I’d check the screen, half-expecting to see an alert from the app. My mind conjured the worst: Denise home earlier than planned, the camera triggered by movement, and Tommy standing in my bedroom like he belonged there. The thought gnawed at me, each buzz a spark of panic that quickly fizzled when it turned out to be just another email or text.
Before I knew it, the day was over, wrapping up earlier than expected. By 4:00 PM, I was packed up and sliding into the backseat of an Uber. The hotel was just five minutes away, but my mind was elsewhere, replaying the thought of the next vibration, one that wouldn’t be a text or email but the app alerting me to movement in my bedroom. As the driver made the final turn and the hotel came into view, I barely registered the scenery passing by, my focus clouded by everything the day had left unresolved.
I kicked off my shoes the moment I entered the hotel room and swapped out my dress clothes for something more comfortable: loose gym shorts and a plain T-shirt. Normally, this would be the part of my evening where I’d head to the hotel gym, knock out a quick session to burn off the stress of meetings and spreadsheets, and then grab dinner at the hotel restaurant or somewhere nearby. But tonight, I couldn’t stick to the routine. My mind was elsewhere, unable to focus on anything other than waiting.
I stretched out on the bed, propped up by pillows, the low hum of ESPN filling the room. The TV provided a weak distraction, but my eyes drifted to the phone lying next to me, its screen dark and silent. Denise would be home any moment now; her schedule was so engrained and predictable that I knew exactly when to expect her. The only thing left to do was wait for the chime.
Finally, it happened. The familiar sound echoed through the room, slicing through the noise of the TV like a jolt of electricity. My breath hitched as my fingers hovered over the screen. I took a deep breath, steadying myself, before opening the app. The hidden camera flickered to life, dragging me back into a reality I wasn’t sure I was ready to face.
There she was, Denise, sitting on the edge of the bed, still in her golf outfit, worn and drained after a full day of practice under the grueling Florida sun. The shirt clung to her body, damp with sweat that had gathered along her back and chest. Once crisp and neatly pressed, her khaki skirt was now wrinkled and stuck to her thighs, the hem sitting just high enough to expose the sharp tan line where bronzed skin met pale flesh. Her short, damp hair, tousled from the humidity, framed her face, with a few stray strands brushing against her forehead. The flickering light from the TV reflected faintly off the lenses of her glasses, casting soft, shifting patterns over her tired eyes as she stared down at her phone. Shoulders slightly slouched, she moved sluggishly, her exhaustion evident in every small, unguarded motion.
Suddenly, my phone vibrated. I glanced down to see the message: “Just got home from practice. How’d work go?” Her fingers moved rhythmically across the screen on the live feed, typing out messages in real-time. I couldn’t help but fixate on the slight delay between the footage in front of me and the text messages vibrating and lighting up my phone seconds later. It felt like the real-life version of a live broadcast interview, with a built-in five-second delay meant to catch and censor curse words before they reached the audience. But here, there was no filter, no chance to block out anything I didn’t want to see.
I exhaled, the tension that had gripped me all day easing slightly, if only for a moment, as we texted back and forth for several minutes about each other’s days. I told her about the meetings and the endless spreadsheets, and she responded with complaints about the heat at the range. It was simple, normal, like we had done a thousand times before during my work trips.
“I’m gonna hop in the shower,” Denise typed after a few more minutes of back-and-forth. We exchanged our virtual goodbyes, promising to catch up later. I watched as she set her phone aside, the faint glow of the screen fading, leaving me with a flicker of cautious optimism, an almost unfamiliar feeling after days of dread.
The thought crept in, fragile but persistent: maybe I’d overreacted. Maybe things were fine. No hidden truths, no surprises, just Denise, exactly where she was supposed to be, home after a long, exhausting day of practice. I felt a flicker of relief, brief but reassuring. Maybe I wouldn’t have to skip the gym or forego grabbing something to eat in the hotel lobby after all. Denise was home, effortlessly settling into the rhythm of her predictable evening. Any moment now, she’d leave the room, the camera would go dark as she disappeared into the bathroom, and ten minutes later, she’d return wrapped in a bath towel, the stench of sunblock and the golf course washed clean, ready to cling to her again tomorrow.
But that didn’t happen. She remained seated on the edge of the bed, picking her phone back up, fingers tapping with intermittent pauses, the unmistakable rhythm of someone immersed in a conversation. But that someone wasn’t me. My phone remained silent, the last message I’d received still the one about her going to take a shower. The fleeting relief I’d felt dissolved, replaced by a heavy, sinking weight in my chest as the realization settled in: someone else had her attention. I sat on the hotel bed, tension knotting my stomach, bracing for the worst.
Ten minutes had passed since she’d claimed she was going to take a shower, but the quiet hope that it might have been Michelle or her golf coach on the other end of her phone had faded. Her “shower” had suddenly turned into a string of selfies. She tilted the phone at different angles, her lips shifting between subtle smiles and playful pouts, shots that clearly weren’t meant for me. There was an immaturity to it, the kind of carefree posing I had never seen from someone as composed as Denise. She wasn’t ashamed, even in her most disheveled state, snapping the pictures with an ease that made my stomach twist. It wasn’t just the photos but the undeniable comfort she had with who they were for. The shower had been forgotten, discarded like an afterthought, overtaken by the pull of the conversation keeping her hooked.
A few more minutes passed, the conversation winding down as Denise set her phone down on the bed, her fingers briefly fidgeting with the edge of the blanket before falling still. I waited, expecting her to get up and head to the bathroom, maybe at least pretend to go through the motions of the shower she’d claimed she would take. But she didn’t. Instead, she remained seated, her gaze drifting lazily toward the TV, her expression calm but distant, as if waiting for something, or someone. My breath grew shallow, and my grip on the phone tightened with each passing second as I watched her every move like a hawk, dread coiling tighter in my chest.
Suddenly, she picked her phone back up off the bed and began typing again. A vibration in my hand pulled me from my spiraling thoughts. “What’s for dinner?” the preview message read, the words hovering over the live feed of her still seated on the bed. Her expression was calm, and detached, nothing like the playful, flirty look she had worn a few minutes earlier during her selfie-laced text exchange. Her disinterest, which would have gone unnoticed through texts alone, was only made apparent by the hidden camera. It became clear: my own wife was small-talking me, killing time until the inevitable.
“Not sure, probably something quick in the lobby,” I replied. “What about you?” My message sent, I watched as a disinterested Denise stayed focused on her phone, fingers hovering just above the screen. She started to type, but then her head lifted suddenly, tilting slightly, the unmistakable reaction to a knock at the door or the ring of a doorbell. As she stood, she tossed her phone onto the bed mid-response, the typing indicator vanishing as whatever caught her attention took priority over a reply. My conversation with her had become an afterthought to whoever was waiting at our front door. My heart sank as she walked toward the bedroom entrance and disappeared from view.
The flicker of an appetite I’d briefly felt earlier had vanished, snuffed out as quickly as it had surfaced. Desperation gnawed at me, dragging me past the edge of reason as I typed out a text I already knew would meet silence. “You there?” I hit send, the words feeling like a scream into an empty canyon, echoing back with nothing. My insecurity crashed through me like a flood breaching a dam, unstoppable, drowning any last shred of dignity I had left. I wasn’t in control anymore; my fingers moved on instinct, typing a hollow message into the abyss.
The light from her phone flickered briefly in the empty room as my text arrived, the device lying on the bed where she had tossed it, a cruel reminder that no one was there to see it. The glow pulsed once, then faded into darkness, unanswered. I stared at my phone, fingers frozen above the keyboard, teetering on the edge of confessing that I could see everything. Desperate to make it stop. Desperate to reclaim even the smallest shred of control. I wanted to ask her why. Why was she doing this? But what would it change? My confession would only backfire, exposing me and giving her the ammunition to twist this into my fault: me, the pathetic, prying husband spying on his wife from a hotel room.
The silent spy cam feed blinked off, the lack of motion deactivating it and leaving the screen dark, but my mind refused to follow. Thoughts spiraled into places I wasn’t ready to confront. Nothing had even happened yet, but the helplessness was suffocating. I cycled through distractions that offered no relief. ESPN highlights flickered across the TV, a blur of sound and color that barely registered, doing nothing to quiet the chaos in my head. I clung desperately to a fragile thread of hope, convincing myself that maybe it wasn’t Tommy. Maybe it was Michelle, stopping by unannounced for a glass of wine and some lighthearted girl talk about the future Denise and I hadn’t had the courage to discuss. It had to be anyone but him. It just had to be. My body remained tense, muscles locked, as each agonizing second dragged on, inching closer to the moment I already knew was coming.