“Company policy. No spouses allowed.” The lie. The mantra. He’d been saying it for eight years. Eight years, sixteen corporate retreats, and I had been left behind every single time. Today, while sifting through a box of old photos, I stumbled upon a group picture from their company’s retreat last year. Several couples were smiling brightly in the front row. I recognized his coworker, Mark—Mark’s wife was standing right beside him. And there was Dan from Sales, with his wife, too. My husband, Trevor, was standing in the second row. Beside him, stood a woman in a white, knee-length dress. I used to own an identical dress. I'd thrown it out three years ago. 1. I stared at the photograph for a long time. White, floral print, cinched waist, falling just above the knee. I bought it at a mall boutique three years ago for $99. I only wore it once, to my mother’s birthday dinner. Then it disappeared. I asked Trevor about it. He said the cleaning service must have accidentally tossed it. I believed him. Now, that same dress was on another woman, standing right next to him. I zoomed in on the photo, desperate to see her face. The pixelation was too poor, offering only a blurred outline: long hair, slender frame, not very tall. Her hand was resting lightly on Trevor’s arm. The gesture was natural, easy—like muscle memory. I heard the sound of a key turning in the lock. The door opened. Trevor was home. “Back already?” I put my phone down, face up on the cushion. “Long day at the office?” “Mhm. Finalizing the West Coast project.” He kicked off his shoes. “Did you eat?” “I did.” I watched him walk into the bathroom to wash his hands, his movements the same as they’d been for eight years. Familiar. “The company retreat is next month,” I said. “Lake Haven Resort, right?” His movements stalled. “Oh?” “I saw it on Lisa Kwan’s post—Mark’s wife. She sounded excited.” Trevor turned off the faucet and dried his hands. “That’s the Sales Department retreat. Tech isn’t necessarily going to that one.” “But don’t Sales and Tech usually go together?” “It depends on the year.” He walked out, his expression neutral. “Management hasn’t finalized the venue yet.” I nodded, letting it drop. He went into his study, saying he needed to hop back on the computer to wrap up some emails. I sat on the sofa and pulled up the photo again. It was taken in front of a grand resort entrance, a sprawling lawn in the background. I recognized the place. Two years ago, after his retreat, I asked him where he’d been. He said it was just some dull, rustic B&B—nothing special. The photo clearly showed something far from rustic. I opened my browser and searched the place. Four stars. Dinner service runs about $150 a head. Some dull, rustic B&B. Right. My phone rang. It was my mother. “Have you eaten, Nat?” “Yes, Mom.” “Is Trevor home?” “In his study, working late.” “Tell him not to overdo it. Look after his health.” “I know.” After hanging up, I walked to the study door. It was slightly ajar. Trevor was on the phone. “...Don’t worry about next month. I’ll handle everything.” His voice was low, careful—as if he didn't want to be overheard. “Alright. Talk soon.” He hung up. I knocked. “Come in.” I pushed the door open. “Who was that?” “A client.” His eyes remained glued to the monitor. “It’s about the project rollout.” “You’re still talking projects this late?” “Yeah, overseas client. Time difference.” I didn't press him further. Back in the living room, I saved the retreat photo to my phone’s camera roll. Later, as we lay in bed, he automatically pulled me close, his arm draped across my waist. “Are you feeling okay lately?” he asked. “Fine.” “The retreat next month—it might be three or four days.” “Mhm.” “You’ll be okay by yourself?” “I’ll be fine.” He kissed my forehead. “Go to sleep.” I closed my eyes, listening until his breathing settled into the slow, steady rhythm of deep sleep. Eight years. Eight years, sixteen retreats. Every single time, he’d told me it was company policy: No spouses allowed. Every single time, I had believed him. But in that photograph, every other man’s wife was there. Only mine wasn’t. I opened my eyes, staring at the ceiling. His hand was still on my hip, warm and familiar. Yet suddenly, that hand felt utterly foreign. 2. The next day was Saturday. Trevor said he had to go into the office for half a day to take care of some urgent paperwork. “Will you be back for lunch?” “Should be.” I watched him leave, then I went straight to my computer. I navigated to his company’s corporate website and clicked the “Employee Events” tab. It was a gallery of photos: retreats, holiday parties, anniversary dinners. I went through them, year by year. 2016 Retreat: Miami. Trevor was in the photo. Standing beside him was a woman. Not me. 2017 Retreat: The Rockies. Trevor was there. Standing beside him was the exact same woman. Still not me. 2018 Retreat: San Diego. The same woman. 2019, 2020, 2021, 2022, 2023, 2024. Every year, every single photo, she was there. She wore different outfits, changed her hairstyle, but her features were the same: a delicate, oval face, single eyelids, and a small dimple when she smiled. I didn’t know her. I had never seen her. Yet she had been standing beside my husband for eight years. My hands started to tremble. I saved every single one of those photographs. When I was done, I picked up Trevor’s phone. He never used a password. He always said, “We don’t need secrets, Nat.” I found a contact named “Veronica C.” and opened their message thread. The latest message was from 11:00 PM last night. Trevor: Did you get home okay? Veronica: I did. Thanks for today. Trevor: Get some rest. Veronica: [Kiss emoji] I scrolled up. The day before. Veronica: Did you book the hotel for the retreat next month? Trevor: Yes, The Intercontinental at Lake Haven. Veronica: The same suite as last year? Trevor: Mhm. Lake view. Veronica: *Can’t wait ~* A searing knot tightened in my stomach. I kept scrolling. One month ago. Trevor: Wear the blue dress for the client dinner. Veronica: Okay! Are you wearing a tie? Trevor: The one you gave me. Veronica: Our matching one! Make sure no one notices. Trevor: Who cares if they notice. Three months ago. Veronica: Did your wife ask where you were going again? Trevor: No. She never asks. Veronica: She’s so easy to fool. Trevor: She’s not easy to fool, she just trusts me. Veronica: Then you should be better to her. Trevor: I know. Six months ago. Veronica: What should I wear for the holiday party this year? Trevor: You look good in anything. Veronica: Your wife won’t be there, right? Trevor: No. She never is. Veronica: Perfect. I can dress up then. Trevor: Whatever you want. A year ago. Veronica: Can I post the photos from the Maldives? Trevor: Sure, just block Nat. The Maldives. A year ago. I remembered. A year ago, I was three months postpartum. That was the time he said the company retreat was mandatory and that the dates were inflexible. I was home alone with a newborn. He was in the Maldives. With her. I put the phone down, struggling to draw a full breath. The front door opened. Trevor was back. “What’s wrong?” He saw my face. “You look terrible.” I just stared at him. I had looked at this face for eight years. I woke up next to it, and I went to sleep next to it. I thought I knew everything about him. Now I realized I knew nothing at all. “Nothing,” I managed, standing up. “I’ll start on lunch.” “I’ll do it. You go rest.” He rolled up his sleeves and walked into the kitchen. I stood there, watching his back. That back was familiar, too. But what did familiarity matter? She was just as familiar with that back. Maybe more so. 3. On Monday, I took a personal day. I went to Trevor’s office building. Not to see him, but to see Lisa Kwan, who worked in HR. Lisa was my high school friend. She’d been at Trevor’s company for five years. “Well, this is a surprise,” Lisa said, genuinely shocked. “I was in the neighborhood. Wanted to grab a coffee.” We walked to a nearby cafe. “Does Trevor know you’re here?” “No. I thought I’d surprise him later.” Lisa smiled. “You two are so sweet.” I forced a smile in return. “So,” I said, trying to sound casual, “I was thinking of coming along for the next company retreat. Are spouses allowed?” Lisa paused. “Spouses? Of course they are.” “Oh. Trevor always told me company policy was strictly no family.” Lisa’s face changed. It was subtle, but I saw it. “No, that’s not right. We’ve always allowed spouses at the retreats. The company even covers half the cost.” My heart stopped for a beat. “Always?” “Since I started, yes. You didn’t know that?” “Trevor said…” I couldn’t finish the sentence. Lisa saw the look on my face. She reached across the table and took my hand. “Nat, what’s going on? Is something wrong with you and Trevor?” “No.” I shook my head. “Maybe I misunderstood.” “Don’t lie to me.” Lisa lowered her voice. “Tell me. Has Trevor been…” I looked at her, silent. She sighed. “The truth is… I’ve wanted to tell you for a while, but I didn’t want to interfere.” “Tell me what?” “Trevor brings a woman to every single event.” My hand began to tremble. “We all assumed it was you. His wife. But then one time, I saw her name tag. It said, ‘Veronica Crystal.’”
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