Chapter 2

Emily snorted and hung up the phone, walking over to Michael.

Being called "sister" by a man her own age was something Emily neither had the mood nor the time to argue about. She urgently tapped the app to relocate the target, "Hurry, hurry, he's almost at Zhongxin!"

"Got it, get in the car."

Michael took quick strides, effortlessly lifting the suitcase as if it were a basket of eggs, placing it into the trunk with a thud as he closed the lid.

He returned to the driver's seat, switched off the hazard lights, and reminded her, "Seatbelt."

His deep voice lent an air of seriousness to everything he said, making listeners feel as though they were receiving an order they couldn't refuse.

Emily pulled the seatbelt across with one hand while refreshing the location on the app. As soon as the new location appeared, she clicked the seatbelt into place and handed the phone to Michael, "He's stopped at the Zhongxin traffic light."

Michael glanced at the map and immediately hit the accelerator, "He doesn't suspect a thing?"

"No, if he did, we wouldn't still be tracking him."

"True." Michael arched an eyebrow and asked, "Who would have thought this 'gadget' would be so handy? How did you come up with this idea?"

"My friend bought this model for her kid. When we had lunch together last time, she demonstrated how accurate the GPS was. And you know what? In large malls, it can even pinpoint the floor the child is on."

Emily's heart rate had not yet calmed; it even seemed to be racing faster. She licked her dry lips and continued, "If they're meeting for lunch, we won't even need to go upstairs to know which restaurant they're in."

After purchasing the children's watch, Emily had tested it several times. As long as the signal was stable, the location range was generally accurate. So, she had to find a place to hide the watch face—without the strap—that wouldn't be easily discovered by Anderson and wouldn't interfere with the signal.

In the end, she chose the storage pocket behind the passenger seat.

When Anderson went to retrieve the luggage from the trunk, Emily swiftly placed the activated watch face into the pocket. It originally held a pack of her frequently used wet wipes. Once the watch face was hidden and the wet wipes were back in place, Anderson closed the trunk lid. The timing was perfect; even a second less could have exposed her scheme.

Even at this moment, Emily still found this approach absurd.

She never imagined that one day she would be using a children's watch to catch her husband's infidelity.

Two months ago, on Children's Day, she discovered Anderson's extramarital affair.

That morning, while she was shopping at the supermarket, her phone received an iMessage.

The message was short, "Your husband is cheating."

Just six words, yet they stirred a tempest in Emily's chest.

The message came from an unknown number. She immediately called back, but there was no answer. When she tried again, the phone was turned off.

Emily tried to regulate her emotions, telling herself not to become paranoid over an anonymous "tip-off."

It could very well be a malicious prank aimed at unsettling her.

But she was indeed unsettled. For the next few days, she watched Anderson's every move, looking for any unusual behavior.

She found none, but another message arrived.

This time, it included a picture. Though somewhat blurry, it clearly showed Anderson walking closely with a young woman at Taikoo Hui.

Emily had never seen this sweet-looking, well-built, fashionably dressed woman before. She wasn't one of Anderson's friends, not an intern or employee from his company, nor a neighbor from their community.

But Anderson's social circle was vast, and Emily only knew a part of it. Just as Anderson wasn't fully aware of her friends—oh, but that was because Anderson had little interest in her social life.

Even though the photo seemed like solid evidence, the angle made it hard to see if the woman was holding Anderson's arm or if their fingers were interlocked.

As she trembled with anger, Emily also thought deeply. Even if she threw this photo in Anderson's face, he could come up with countless explanations to defend himself.

From their initial meeting, through their courtship, and into marriage, Emily and Anderson had been together for nearly eight years. Throughout their disagreements, Emily had never won an argument against Anderson.

So, it wasn't enough. She knew this "evidence" wasn't enough.

As for the "whistleblower," the phone remained off.

Emily tried searching for the number across various apps—no results on WeChat, no match on Alipay. She saved the number to her contacts, but TikTok and Xiaohongshu failed to suggest any "possible acquaintance."

The number was like a blank slate.

For an entire week, Emily was tormented, not only by the betrayal of Anderson's affair but also by the mystery of the "whistleblower" and their motives. Was it the mistress herself, seeking to destabilize Emily and elevate her own status by disrupting her marriage with Anderson? Or was it someone close to Anderson, torn between their loyalty to him and their empathy for her, choosing this tepid method to reveal the truth?

Unable to reach the number by phone, Emily sent numerous messages, asking about the sender's identity and intentions.

There was no reply. Frustrated, she finally sent, "If you have guts, send me clearer photos, ideally of them naked in bed! These vague pictures aren't enough for me to post a tragic essay on Weibo!"

Immediately after sending, she regretted it. Unlike WeChat, text messages couldn't be retracted once sent.

Emily was on edge, feeling as if she were walking a tightrope in the sky. She became less interested in the specifics of Anderson's affair and more obsessed with uncovering the malicious "whistleblower" who seemed to derive pleasure from toying with her emotions.

By mid-to-late June, Eldoria was already in the throes of summer heat. Like cicadas emerging from the ground, the silent phone number buzzed to life.

Among the cicada songs, Emily received a new message: a hotel address, a room number, and a taunting line, "If you want photos of them in bed, catch them yourself."

Fury, pent-up for over half a month, surged from Emily's feet to her head. Without a second thought, she called the number.

Unexpectedly, the call connected.

"Happiness" arrived so abruptly that Emily's rage got stuck in her throat, neither coming out nor going down.

The other person spoke first, "Hello, Ms. Emily Johnson."

It was a man, his voice low and deep, rich and resonant, completely at odds with the "scheming villain" she had envisioned.

Emily managed to ask, "Who are you?"

The man chuckled softly and replied, "Me? I'm the husband of your husband's mistress."