Chapter 1: The Shave That Started It All

At 11 PM, my husband went to bed and gave me our usual goodnight kiss—a gentle peck on the forehead, his lips soft and warm, then his whispered, "Sweet dreams, Em."

I couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. It stuck with me, like a popcorn kernel wedged in my gums.

After tossing and turning in our California king bed, my mind racing in the dark, I finally realized: he had shaved in the evening.

"What's wrong with shaving? Seriously, Em, it's just shaving. What's the big deal?" My best friend Rachel rolled her eyes, flicking her perfect nails as we settled into the corner booth at our go-to coffee shop downtown.

"He's never shaved at night before. Not once in five years."

"Maybe he had a business dinner. Trying to impress some VIPs."

I shook my head, stirring my untouched latte, watching the foam dissolve.

"Nathan never goes to evening events—everyone knows that. He comes home at exactly 7 PM every night and is in bed by 11, like clockwork. He literally sets his watch by atomic time, Rachel."

"But everyone also knows he's obsessed with you. He practically risked his life for you." Rachel shot me a look, exasperated, her coffee halfway to her lips.

"Emma, you’re not actually suspicious, are you? This is Nathan. The guy who has your wedding photo as his laptop wallpaper."

I tried to laugh, but my mind was already spiraling—what if I was missing something obvious?

"Not really. I mean, it’s just... different."

Just then, Nathan called. Our wedding song floated through the café, a bittersweet melody that made Rachel snort.

"Em, Maria told me you barely touched your lunch. She said you just picked at your soup. I had my assistant send over some of your favorites from that spot downtown—the truffle mac and cheese, and that crazy good fried chicken you love. After you eat, take a little walk before your nap. Tonight, let’s see a show—Hamilton’s back."

His voice was gentle, soothing, that special tone he saved only for me—like coaxing a skittish animal, or a child who needed comfort.

Rachel listened, sighing and shaking her head with mock disbelief.

"If people heard this, they’d never believe it was Nathan Brooks—the same guy who made half the boardroom cry last month."

I couldn't blame her. Nathan was famous for his ruthless edge, the icy CEO everyone feared. Wall Street Journal once called him "the Ice King of Silicon Valley." People knew he adored his wife, but only I knew what that looked like: the sweet notes in my lunch bag, fresh flowers every Friday, and how he’d learned to braid my hair after I mentioned it once.

We’d been friends for ten years, married for five. This side of Nathan—the gentle, meticulous, thoughtful man—was just for me.

He remembered every detail: what I liked to eat, what shows made me cry, what brand of purse I’d been eyeing, even which side of the bed I preferred in summer. He kept it all in what he called his "Emma Encyclopedia." He even knows I hate cilantro, but will eat it if it’s in tacos.

One time I lost it after he put a tracking app on my phone without asking. I stormed off, spent the night at the downtown Marriott. When I got home, he was on the couch, a mess—red-eyed, tissues everywhere, coffee cups scattered. He hugged me so tight and whispered, "I was wrong, Em. I’ll never do it again. Please don’t leave. I can’t—I can’t do this without you."

Last year, we went to Vermont—one of those postcard towns with covered bridges and maple syrup. The inn caught fire late at night. Nathan had gone out to get me a snack and when he saw the flames, he tore past the firefighters and ran straight into the smoke, shouting my name. They couldn’t hold him back. Only when I called out from another room did he finally stumble out, jacket scorched, eyes wild, still searching for me.

He has a pink scar on his forehead from that night. Every time I see it, my heart aches, but he always smiles and says, "It’s my medal of honor for being Emma Mitchell’s husband. I’d do it again in a heartbeat."

Nathan loved me.

It was as certain as the sun rising, as real as gravity.

And I loved him—so much it scared me sometimes.

So if something as tiny as him shaving at night changed, I noticed. The way you notice a crooked picture frame or your coffee mug moved an inch. That’s just who I am.