Chapter 3

"Babe, I picked up some ribs for dinner," he called out cheerfully.

He turned around, noticing me on the sofa. "You're home early today."

"Took the afternoon off."

"Feeling sick?"

"No. Just tired."

He didn't push any further, turning back to prep dinner in the kitchen.

Sitting in the living room, the aroma of garlic and seasonings wafting from the stove made my stomach turn violently.

During dinner, he acted just like he always did, carving off the tenderest piece of meat and placing it onto my plate.

I kept my head down, picking at my food, completely silent.

Whenever he asked something, I answered with flat, one-word replies, never once looking him in the eye.

"Are you still upset about the paycheck thing?"

He set his fork down, his voice carrying a hint of helplessness.

"I'm not."

### 小说标题

The Devoted Husband's Hidden Tab"Then what is wrong? You’ve been acting weird since last night."

I put my bowl down and finally looked up at him.

His face was painted with genuine confusion and concern. His brow was slightly furrowed, his fork resting against the rim of his plate.

I parted my lips, desperate to ask him, but not a single sound came out.

The words caught completely in my throat.

"I'm really fine."

I looked down.

"Work's just been stressful lately."

He studied me for a beat, didn't push any further, and picked up his fork to continue eating.

Neither of us said much that night.

While he did the dishes, I went back to the bedroom, lying in bed scrolling through my phone, though my eyes didn't register a single thing on the screen.

After finishing the kitchen, he watched TV in the living room for a bit and didn't come in until past ten.

My back was turned to his side. I listened to his footsteps approach the bed, felt the mattress dip, and heard the soft click of the lamp turning off.

In the pitch black, his steady breathing drifted right by my ear.

Smooth, rhythmic—just like every single night over the past eight years.

"Austin," I said softly.

"Hmm?" His voice was thick with drowsiness.

"I want to see your phone."

Silence.

It lasted maybe two or three seconds, but those few seconds felt like an entire endless winter.

"Why do you suddenly want to check my phone?"

His tone still sounded lazy, but beneath it, I caught a sharp, sudden edge of tension.

"Just felt like looking through it."

I rolled over to face him, though I couldn't make out his expression in the dark.

"Is that a problem?"

"Of course not. Go ahead."

He reached under his pillow, pulled out his phone, and hesitated for a fraction of a second before handing it over.

"Passcode's the same."

I took it. When the screen lit up, the glow illuminated his face.

He was lying on his side, his expression masked by the shadows.

I purposely clicked into other apps first. I skimmed through his photos—just work screenshots and random landscape shots, no selfies.

Then I checked his texts—all two-factor authentication codes and delivery notifications.

Only then did I open SnapChat.

My thumb hovered above the screen, my peripheral vision locked onto him.

He moved.

He shifted from his side onto his back, crossing his hands tightly over his stomach.

His breathing turned heavier than before, like he was deliberately trying to keep it steady.

I tapped the messages. Pinned right at the very top was Chloe Lin.

"Who is this Chloe Lin?"