The Lace Lingerie Mystery

The voices of the two faded into the background. I pulled out my phone.

[Honey, are you okay? I just got home. Did she really look for you at your office?]

It was a while before Milton finally replied.

[Don't worry, babe. I've already told them. I was out drinking with Malcolm and the guys last night. It must've been a thief who came in and left something behind.]

I stared at the phone, looking at his weak excuse. He really thought I was a fool, didn't he? We lived on the fourth floor—if someone jumped from there, they'd be dead. A thief wouldn't throw a pair of underwear onto the third floor.

I typed coldly, [That's too creepy. Maybe we should call the police.]

To my surprise, Milton called me immediately.

"No, we can't call the police. Thieves these days are vengeful. Don't you remember the cases I told you about? Anyway, nothing was stolen, so I'll change the lock tomorrow. Don't worry!"

I was as obedient as could be. "Okay, I'll do whatever you say."

I could hear the relief in his voice, though he tried to hide it.

"By the way, babe, I might have to work late tonight. You know how it is, with so many cases coming up for court."

How did his workload as an HR assistant relate to the cases? He wasn't even one of the lawyers reviewing them.

"Okay, take care of yourself," I replied gently.

Later that night, I ordered a cake to be delivered to Milton's office, with instructions to ensure he signed for it and that they took a photo for proof. Of course, he wasn't there, and the cake was returned.

I glanced at the clock on the wall: 7:30 PM.

I sent Milton a link.

[Honey, I want to get this dining table. Can you check if there are any special deals for regulars? I heard the price is the same for both new and old customers. I need the info now!]

It took almost two minutes before he finally replied.

[I see it's 770 dollars here. I'm really busy, babe. I'll talk to you when I get home. XX.]

I didn't even bother to reply. I just logged into his shopping app.

Some men don't lock their phones or keep encrypted files on their computers. They leave everything wide open. But then, they have two accounts, and their phone has a clone. Is that considered a high-level tactic?

When I logged in, I could see the address he had just checked into. The address showed a radius of half a mile, with four hotels, two coffee shops, and one popular restaurant nearby.

I hired seven delivery people, one for each place. In the notes, I told them that I was trying to catch my partner cheating. I also included a description of Milton's appearance and asked them to snap pictures if they saw him with anyone, making sure to get clear shots of both faces. I promised extra pay if they got the photos.

Twenty minutes later, one of the couriers sent me a photo.

[Miss, is this him?]

Under the warm, cozy lights of the trendy restaurant, Milton, dressed in a black shirt and beige pants, was chatting with a woman.

[That's him. I want a picture of her face.]

The woman's photo came in shortly after.

I only glanced at it, but it felt familiar, like I'd seen her somewhere before.

At this point, the task was technically over. But the courier, more outraged than I was, sent me over ten more photos all at once.

There were shots of Milton flirting with the woman, of him fixing her hair, and even one where she leaned in to kiss him...

[Miss, you don't have to pay extra. It's everyone's responsibility to fight against immoral behavior. Oh, and I overheard them talking about a house and a car. Be careful.]

I thanked him and sent him a 30-dollar tip.

Putting my phone down, I took a long, deep breath, but my nose started to sting with a familiar bitterness.

Milton wasn't just thinking about other women—he was thinking about my house, my car—everything except the six years we'd spent together.