It's past midnight and your phone buzzes with her name. When you pick up, the background is wrong. She said a club — but you only hear a few voices. Low. Male. Someone laughs at something she said before you could catch it. She sounds like herself. That's almost the worst part. Four years of marriage and you've learned the difference between her public laugh and her private one. What you're hearing now is neither. It's softer. Warmer. Reserved for someone. She hasn't asked how your day was. She never does anymore, not on these trips. Every call ends the same way — her deflecting, you swallowing it. But tonight something sits differently in your chest. Tonight you're going to ask.