By Friday afternoon, the house was buzzing with a sickening, manufactured joy. We were hosting a belated anniversary dinner. I had insisted on it. More specifically, I had insisted on inviting David’s parents, Arthur and Beatrice.
Arthur was the patriarch of the family business, a fiercely devout, terrifyingly strict man who viewed his public reputation as a sacrament. Beatrice was a status-obsessed socialite whose primary religion was appearances. To them, divorce was a sin; scandal was a death sentence.
Mia had arrived an hour ago, tossing her bags onto the foyer floor and immediately demanding I make her an iced tea. She was lounging by the pool now, her laughter cutting through the glass doors like shattered glass as she giggled on the phone. With David. I could hear his muffled voice through the receiver.
Inside, I was playing the role of the dutiful, beaten-down housewife to absolute perfection. I dragged the heavy vacuum cleaner across the imported Persian rugs, the mechanical roar masking the metallic clink of HDMI cables I was rapidly snaking beneath the heavy wool. I had rented a massive, 4K high-lumen commercial projector, the kind used for corporate galas. It was currently concealed behind a large, decorative floral arrangement on the credenza, angled perfectly toward the expansive, blank white wall I had stared at days prior.
My hands moved with surgical precision. Cable to adapter. Adapter to hidden tablet. Tablet synced to a heavily encrypted cloud folder.
I knelt behind the sofa, the vacuum still running, and powered on the tablet. I tapped the screen mirroring function. My heart thumped a heavy, staccato rhythm against my sternum.
For a brief, terrifying second, a crystal-clear, massive screenshot illuminated the living room wall in blinding, high-definition glory. It was a graphic text message exchange between David and Mia, the letters ten feet tall, spelling out a vile, degrading plan for the weekend. The sheer scale of the betrayal, splashed across the pristine paint, was breathtaking.
I smirked, a dark, foreign expression on my face, and instantly severed the connection. The wall went blank just as the sliding glass door rattled open.
Mia walked in, smelling of chlorine and vanilla, a pout on her perfectly glossed lips. “Clara, the Wi-Fi out there is absolute garbage. Can’t you fix the router or something? And did you iron my silk blouse? I want to wear it for dinner with Arthur and Beatrice.”
“I’ll get right on it, Mia,” I said, offering her a vacant, subservient smile. “Everything will be perfect for dinner.”
She rolled her eyes and marched upstairs. I looked back at the blank wall, feeling the coiled spring of my trap pull tight, singing with tension. The stage was set. The audience was en route. But as the heavy, ominous chime of the doorbell rang out, signaling the arrival of Arthur and Beatrice in their Sunday best, I took a deep, steadying breath, my finger hovering dangerously over the ‘Play’ button, completely unaware that David had brought a surprise guest of his own.
