His young mistress, who had been standing right behind him, let out a short, shaky breath and grabbed his arm, her eyes widening in disbelief.

Something was wrong.
Terribly, unmistakably wrong.

Every light in the living room was on. Not one lamp, not two — all of them. The brightness was harsh, almost theatrical, illuminating every corner as if someone wanted to make sure that nothing remained hidden. And there, in the very center, stood a perfectly set dining table.

Two plates.
Two glasses filled with red wine.
And candles flickering in a way that suggested they had been lit not long ago.

A romantic dinner.
But not for them.

“Did you… set this up?” the woman whispered, her voice trembling.

The man silently shook his head. He felt his throat constrict, his heartbeat pounding like a drum inside his chest. He walked further into the room, and that was when he smelled it — a fragrance he knew by heart, one he had lived with for years.

His wife’s perfume.

That was impossible. He had personally driven her to the airport. He had watched her walk through the security gates, suitcase in hand. He’d even received a message from her saying she was waiting to board the plane.

So how could her scent be lingering here… fresh and unmistakable?

He touched one of the wine glasses.
The wine was warm.
Not cooled by time, not freshly poured — as if someone had filled it minutes before they arrived.

His mistress swallowed hard. “Someone has been here… someone who shouldn’t.”

Then she noticed something else.
A soft gasp escaped her lips.

On the armchair by the window — the one his wife always used — lay a scarf.
Her scarf.

The exact one she had left in the hallway drawer before leaving. He remembered her tossing it aside, saying she wouldn’t need it for her business trip. He had watched her do it.

Yet the scarf was here.
Neatly folded.
Deliberately placed.

Fear began to wrap itself around his chest like a tightening rope.

He moved toward the bedroom. His steps were slow, almost hesitant, as if he feared what he might find. When he pushed the door open, the room greeted him with a quiet that felt suffocating. The bed was disturbed. Not messy — disturbed. As if someone had sat on it. Or lain on it.

And on the pillow lay something that made his stomach drop.

His wife’s sleepwear.
Folded.
Prepared.
Exactly as she always arranged it before getting into bed.

“This… can’t be real,” he muttered.

A faint sound echoed from the hallway.
A soft click.
Barely audible — but unmistakable.

The mistress flinched violently.
“M–maybe we should go. Please. I don’t like this.”

The man didn’t respond.
His attention had shifted to the mirror above the dresser.

A message was written across the glass.
In red lipstick.

“Did you honestly believe I knew nothing?”

The words hit him harder than any slap. He staggered backward, gripping the edge of the nightstand to steady himself. His legs felt weak, his mouth dry.

And then he noticed another detail — something that froze him completely.

On the nightstand lay a phone.
Not his.
Not hers.

His wife’s phone.

The very phone she had slipped into her handbag at the airport. He saw her zip it inside. He knew she always kept it with her.

Yet it was here.

He picked it up with trembling fingers. The screen lit up immediately.

A photo filled the display.

A selfie.
Taken right in this room.
His wife sitting on their bed.
Smiling — but not her usual smile.
This one was calm. Too calm.

Timestamp: 7:19 PM
He looked at the clock on the wall.

7:46 PM.

She had been here… less than half an hour ago.

Then — a new notification appeared on the phone.

“Gallery: New video saved.”

His breath caught in his throat as he tapped the screen.

The video began with the front door of their apartment slowly swinging open.
His wife stepped inside. Calm. Almost serene.
She placed her suitcase by the couch, turned on the lights, set the table, lit the candles.

Then she approached the camera, leaned in slightly, and whispered:

“If you’re watching this, I’m already gone.
But remember — nothing escapes me.”

The video ended abruptly.

And at that exact moment…

The front door handle moved.

Slowly.
Deliberately.

As if the person outside already knew the two of them were standing inside — frozen, breathless, waiting for whatever was coming next.