I pulled up outside a pretty house in a quiet suburban neighborhood. It had a fenced backyard, some well-trimmed bushes, and appeared to be freshly raked of leaves. Nothing about it screamed that anything sinister was going on. But Em’s car was in the driveway, so I knew something had to be up.

I parked on the street and stepped out of my car. I steeled myself as I walked up to the house. The front door was wide open, so I knocked on the glass storm door. Nobody answered. I knocked louder, but there was still no response. I leaned closer to peek through the glass. I could hear the muffled sound of a vacuum. A small table was nearby, and I recognized Em’s keys in a dish there. I knew they were his, because I could see his little flag key chain. I frowned and knocked so loudly that the whole door was rattling recklessly. If I knocked any harder, I was afraid the glass would break. Still, nothing.

Emboldened and irritated, I tried the handle. It was unlocked. I hesitantly stepped inside. I checked the table first. There was some junk mail in the pile, but a lot of it seemed important. Bills, and things like that. All of it was addressed to Emile Pelletier. I pulled his phone and wallet out of my purse and chucked them next to his keys. Something else on the table caught my eye.

It was a picture frame. Inside was a picture of a pretty young woman. I’d never seen her before. She looked maybe a couple years older than me. I told myself that if this was Emile’s house, maybe she was a relative. A cousin or something, possibly. A really close cousin, who was like a sister to him, which would explain why he’d keep her framed photo in such an accessible place.

The sour, sinking feeling in my gut nagged at me that there was obviously more to it than that. A man didn’t just keep an entire house a secret from his girlfriend—his girlfriend of almost a year, I might add—for no good reason. He was hiding something from me. Something big. Was it another woman? Was he cheating? I cast a glare to the photograph on the table. Whoever she was, her serene smile was starting to get to me. I flipped the frame face down so that I wouldn’t have to look at her anymore.

I knew that I should get the hell out of this house as soon as possible. I didn’t belong here. I was definitely trespassing. I should leave, before I was caught red-handed. But my curiosity overcame my reservations, and I found myself drawn farther in inside.

The dining room was just around the corner. I recognized the table as the one Em had brought over for my birthday dinner. A painting was hanging on a wall nearby. I crept over to inspect it. It was breathtakingly lovely. It was the exact opposite of Karen’s ghastly canvases. It featured a vase of flowers in full bloom, and the expressive strokes perfectly captured the vibrant colors. It radiated life and beauty. You could see the texture that the artist passionately etched out with their paintbrushes. It was obviously a handmade original. It looked like something that should be in a gallery or reproduced on sentimental greeting cards.

Below it was another canvas, much smaller this time. The strokes were less confident, but the colors were the same as in the other. At first I thought that maybe the artist was trying to copy the other, far more superior painting. The perspective was different, though. Not all the blooms were facing the same direction. It must have been another painting of the same still life arrangement. Probably by a different artist, based on the variation in skill level.

On a bookshelf sat more photographs, which were of much greater interest to me than both of the paintings had been. I picked them up one at a time to inspect them. The first was of Emile. He looked so much younger than how I knew him. He was wiry, thin, and boyish. His hair was significantly shorter than how he wore it now. He’d probably been younger than me when this one was taken.

The next photo was a group shot. I immediately recognized the woman from the photo I’d seen earlier. She was front and center and holding a birthday cake. Emile was to one side of her, and I recognized Karen on the other. None of the other faces were familiar.

The third frame contained the evidence I’d been dreading. It had three small photos, all of Emile and the woman. In the first, she was gazing in shock at Em, who was kneeling before her. The second was very much like the first, except she was covering her mouth in surprise. In the third, she was showing off the ring adorning her left hand. Em was holding up a sign that read ‘She said yes!’

I was shaking. I was livid. My fucking boyfriend was married? I was the other woman? Karen fucking knew what was happening, and didn’t say anything to me earlier? I was going to be sick. I let out a shaky breath as the frame slipped from my hands. It tumbled to the hardwood floor. The roaring vacuum cut out just in time for the shattering of the glass to echo through the house.

I crumpled to the floor, my heart just as broken as the shards of glass cutting into my knees. I couldn’t catch my breath. Some part of me recognized the sound of footsteps approaching, but I was powerless to move. I looked up, half expecting to be faced with the woman from the photos. It was Emile. I started to sob.

“Oh, Elle,” he cooed with sickening compassion, “You’re hurt!”

He moved to help me up, but I slapped him away. “Don’t touch me!”

“Let me help,” he insisted as he tried to reach for me again.

“I said don’t fucking touch me!” I spat as I violently shoved him with all of my strength. He barely budged. The glass dug deeper into my flesh, and the pain was starting to register now that some of the initial numbing shock had faded.

Em swiftly grasped my elbow and pulled me to my feet. He was so fast that I didn’t have a chance to fight him off again. “Come with me, we’ve got to get you cleaned up.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you!”

“Please don’t cry,” he said as he tenderly cupped my cheek. He used his thumb to rub away at my hot tears. “It breaks my heart to see you so upset. Let me take care of you.”

I blubbered in protest, but followed him upstairs to the bathroom. He sat me on the edge of the tub and carefully started picking the glass from my knees. He seemed completely unaffected by my presence here. He was practically his usual self, caring for me with the same tender affection as always. If I didn’t know any better, I might have thought this was all a bad dream.

Finally, I was ready to start asking questions. “When were you going to tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

I scoffed. “Don’t play dumb. I want you to tell me what’s going on. Is this your fucking house?”

“It is,” he admitted. “I wanted to tell you. For the longest time, I didn’t know how. But I prepared for today. I knew you would find your way here. It was just sooner than I’d expected. I wasn’t there to meet you. I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry?” I hissed as he placed adhesive bandages over my cuts. “You’re sorry? Sorry for what? That you got caught?”

“That I hurt you. That I lied to you. That I wasn’t there to help you understand.”

“Oh, I think I understand perfectly.” I rolled down my leggings and brushed past him. I needed to collect my purse from downstairs in order to get the hell out of here. I’d dropped it on the floor at some point.

He scrambled downstairs after me, “But you don’t understand.”

“I don’t? So I’m not currently standing in your secret house? You don’t have a secret wife?”

“I’m not married,” he said shamelessly. “I’ve never been married.”

I picked up the broken frame off the floor and gestured to what was clearly an engagement photo shoot. “Then who the fuck is this?”

He stopped to chew his lip before answering. “That’s Elle.”

I gaped at him in shock over what he’d just said. Horrified, my gaze slid down to the pictures in the frame I was holding. Terrible realization dawned upon me. Things were worse than I’d expected. So much worse.

“I need to get out of here,” I said as I brushed past him out the door.

“Please don’t go! Don’t leave me. Let me explain,” Em begged, but his pleas fell on deaf ears. I jumped into my car and peeled away.