8 p.m. passed. Then 9 p.m.
Still no sign of him.
The apartment grew dim. The candle she had lit flickered weakly… then went out.
Just then, her phone buzzed.
A message — from an unknown number.
Her heart pounded as she opened it with trembling fingers:
“Your husband is at the motel with me.
He said he’s tired of his ‘boring wife at home.’
If you don’t believe me, come to the Taman Sari Hotel, room 307.”
Attached was a photo.
Adrian, her husband, sat on a bed, arms around a young woman, both drunk. Red light flooded their faces — the kind of light that belongs to places of betrayal, not love.
Clara’s hands shook violently.
The phone slipped from her fingers, crashing to the floor, its screen cracking.
She snatched it up again and dialed his number.
Once. Twice.
No answer.
She kept calling. Three times. Five. Ten.
By the thirtieth call, the cold operator’s voice replied: “The number you dialed cannot be reached at this time.”
Her heart clenched as if pierced by glass.
