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His phone dings for the fifth time, but, for Marjorie, it feels like more than that. They'd hosted a dinner party with friends and family to celebrate his new position as Chief of Police. Drinks, food, and stories went around the crowd as the evening transitioned to night, but she noticed how much his phone took his attention.

There, again, it chimes with yet another text message, and just as she expects, he strolls from the walk-in closet to the nightstand. His tie lay almost undone, loose around his neck like a noose before it's strung up.

He rolls his left wrist in circles to release the tension from holding a champagne glass and shaking hands all night, then lifts the device in his right.

Marjorie's eyes are trained on the novel in her hands, staring at the words that had her attention before his was taken from his reflection in the tall mirror near his suede shoes. Though it appears to him that she's reading, those legible paragraphs have faded to blurry, black lines because her focus is on him in her periphery.

He sits his thumbpad on the screen so the biometric can scan his print, then proceeds to tap and swipe. His dark brown eyes flick over the phone and onto the side of her face, watching to see if she's doing the same to him.

Marjorie brings her index to her lips and licks below her short, manicure nail, then flips the page. She straightens her back against the headboard, then tugs the beige, satin comforter further up her plump thighs.

"Marge, I gotta step out," he tells her, his words slow and calculated as he anticipates her reaction.

"That's fine, Jack," she monotonously says without a shift in her demeanor. He furrows his eyebrows, but crosses the room with the phone held tight. Usually, she'd go into hysterics, so it's surprising how calm she's reacting.

In the past, she suspected him of cheating but couldn't prove it. She used to tail him in her Porche at times he should've been off from work, had her Bridge Club friends ask their husbands about what he could be up to, and even rummaged through his suit jackets for receipts. He was meticulous.

She looks at him over her novel, her hazelbrows boring a hole in the back of his head as he opens the bedroom door. He rocks his weight onto the other foot, then turns his eyes to peer over his shoulder. He expected to see her engrossed in her book, but instead, she's staring right back at him.

His eyebrows relax, his molars gnash, and a chill rushes up his spine. His arm hairs stand on end, and he opens his mouth to speak but has nothing to say.

Like she knows what he's up to, a smile casts across her mahogany face that reaches her eyes.

Jack swallows his nerves, but his hands shake regardless. His knees threaten to buckle, so he clears his throat and shuts the door behind him on his way out of the room.

When it clicks shut, the smile melts off her lips, and her gentle eyes stare at the door in slits. She lowers her chin to her chest and slowly shuts the book. As she rises to her sock-covered feet, she slips the novel in her place.

Those secret phone calls always left a bad taste in her mouth, and she refuses to go to bed curious.

When she married him, she endured the storm that came with infidelity. The voicemails on their answering machine from his women, demanding he return their calls; text messages to her cellphone from other women, claiming to be pregnant with his children.

They all threatened to expose the affairs if he didn't leave her for them, but she handled it behind his back. When checks or cash weren't enough, she got her hands dirty.

He swore he'd never step out on her again, but it wouldn't surprise her if old habits die hard. 

She stands at the door and presses the side of her face to it. She stares at the furnished bedroom as her heart thumps in her ear like an ultrasound. Framed pictures sit on both nightstands. One is from their wedding shoot, and the other is of their triplets when they were toddlers.

"Aisha, I know," he whispers into the phone, and her heart sinks. "I swear, I'll figure something out, but until then, you have to stop calling and texting so much. If my wife finds out," he trails off. Marjorie's hands ball into fists at her side, and her nostrils flare like a bull in a cartoon. "Exactly. Just — trust me, okay?" He's silent for a few beats before he lets out a sigh. "I love you too. Goodnight."

Marjorie jerks her head away from the door and stares at it with her face scrunched. She forces her hands out of fists but her defiant fingers sit like claws. Her knuckles pop as she straightens her fingers.

Suddenly, she feels a sense of deja vu.

She runs her fingers through her twist-out as she returns to bed. The novel is placed in the nightstand's cubby hole, then she flicks the lamp off and slips on her side under the top sheet and comforter.

Eventually, he enters the room and stands at the arch, watching her silhouette rise and fall.

***

Three weeks later, she sits at her vanity, running her rosewood-colored lipstick across her thick lips. He's in the bathroom connected to their room, the shower water beating against his skin and the glass enclosure.

Her hair is pulled above her head in a loose bun with curls draping down like crystals on a chandelier. The diamonds on her bib necklace sit against her collarbone above her hickory-colored, foldover off-shoulder dress.

Jack's phone rings and her hand pauses. She allows her eyes to wander onto the phone's reflection, sitting on his nightstand connected to a charger.

Every day, for weeks, he'd incessently received calls and texts. From then on, she knew when she heard the woman's name that it was her.

As she allows the phone to ring out, Marjorie caps the lipstick while rubbing her lips together to spread the dark shade of red. Her eyes are trained on her reflection, admiring every detail he takes for granted: her full head of hair, wide-set eyes, high cheekbones, and full lips; features set on an apple-shaped face.

The water shuts off, and she smooths the folded fabric that's hugging her upper arms. Jack steps in the room with a white towel around his waist and beads of water on his ivory skin.

"Someone tried calling you a little while ago." He stops at the double door to the walk-in closet, and his muscles tense. His fingers tighten around the bulky portion of the towel like at any moment it would come undone.

"Who was it," he asks, fighting his voice not to quiver. He turns only his head to look at her sitting in the soft chair. She smiles at his reflection, flashing her top row of pearly whites.

"You know I don't bother your phone, Jack," she says in her most docile voice. She notices his knuckles growing pale and his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. She basks in his intimidation, knowing that he knows she holds all the cards.

It took her three weeks to realize why he'd been so cautious about her discovering his little secret. He didn't know she had a few of his mistresses killed, nor did he figure out why the others blocked his number when they left the country, but she knows.

In exchange for one hundred thousand dollars, they were to emigrate and lose all contact with Jack Williams. Being the granddaughter of Nigerian billionaires, money wasn't an issue for Marjorie, but she knows it's not about any of it to Jack. He's afraid of her divorcing him and leaving him bankrupt, but he fears her family's power moreso.

"It's probably my brother. We're supposed to be meeting for drinks in an hour," he mumbles, stepping into the walk-in.

Marjorie's drops her smile and narrows her eyes at the closet. She looks over her shoulder and says, "You didn't tell me," without losing the faux sincerity in her voice.

"Oh, yeah, I'm sorry. It must've slipped my mind." She blows a breath out her nose in a suppressed chuckle. She knows it's not his brother, and obviously, he didn't forget to tell her.

"Well, be safe, and tell Luke I said, 'Hi.'" She gives herself another look, then stands to her black kitten heels. She collects her clutch purse from her side of the large bed and watches Jack push aside hung shirts.

Without a word, she leaves in her Porche to meet her brothers at an undisclosed location.

***

Two days later, Marjorie stood at the island making Fufu. She held a smirk while listening to her husband sniffling in the living room. He sat on their sectional, scrolling through his phone with hot tears running down his red face.

"Jack?" He sniffles, then glances at her over his phone. "The food's almost done."

He nods and gives a weak smile that resembles a twitch. He buries himself in the messages between him and Aisha, scrolling and reading them like love letters.

He went over to his mistress' house with the money he promised her. Ten thousand dollars in an envelope she never received.

He knocked, texted, called, and left voicemails, but she never responded.

He'd been crying on and off ever since.

He's worried something may have happened to her and their son, but despite wanting to call her parents for answers or to file a report, he dreads the possibility of it reaching Marjorie.

"Did you figure out what you want for dessert?" Her soft voice takes his attention. He lifts his dark-brown eyes onto the hazel-brown ones, lovingly staring at him. Sometimes he wonders why she chose him. With her money, intellect, and beauty, she could have anyone of the same caliber, but her devotion never wavered. When he shakes his head, she pouts her lip and lifts her eyebrows. "Jack, what's wrong? You've been moping for days. Is your depression coming back?"

He blinks and allows his thin lips to fall apart. She hadn't said anything when he sat around crying, so he assumed she didn't notice.

She noticed but couldn't care less. She gave him five children, paid for their education when he struggled to find work, and taught them what they should've learned from him. Because of her, they're married and affluent in their own right.

"I'm sorry." He wipes away his tears in one hand, pinching his nose bridge as the other clicks off his phone. "I've just been overwhelmed with some of the cases at work. Plus, it's the anniversary of my grandfather's death."

"Oh, my goodness," she coos, stepping away from the dough and approaching him. "Why didn't you tell me." He sits up, and she embraces his head to her stomach with his ear pressed above her navel. Marjorie glides her brown-painted nails through his black waves, watching the strands' blue tint against the sunlight from their drawn curtains. "Maybe you should go lay down. I'll bring you your food when it's ready."

Reluctantly, he agrees and she drops her arms, then steps aside. She watches him trudge to the stairs, holding the rail as he ascends.

She feels disgust at the pit of her stomach. She'd met his grandfather when they were engaged. He was attached to a tank that helped him breathe, but smoked Camels like his lungs weren't weak. The old man took to her easily, so his death weighed on her, and she'd never forget the date and time.

The anniversary of his death was months prior.

Marjories parents told her Jack was no good, like rotten fruit only fit for bugs. Even her brothers told her they could make him disappear, but she refused to give up her love for him.

So much homicide, countless amounts of wasted money later, and she's starting to change her mind.

Even if she never remarried, peace would feel even better.