Betrayed by the Numbers Chapter 1

I could see the number of people each person had ever been intimate with.

In college, a rich heir and the poor, breathtakingly handsome guy everyone admired confessed to me at the same time.

The number above the heir's head was 108.

The number above Evan Hart's was zero.

So I took Evan's flowers.

After we got married, his number became one.

For seven years after that, even after he became an Oscar-winning actor, it never rose.

Then an exuberant newcomer joined his production.

Evan and she clicked. They ran lines late into the night. He guided her through close-contact fight choreography, hand over hand.

"Sophie has real instinct," Evan explained. "I'm just excited to see talent."

The number above his head hadn't changed, so I believed him.

After the shoot wrapped, they seemed to lose touch.

I thought nothing had changed.

Then, on the most ordinary day imaginable, the number above Evan's head changed from one to two.

* * *

I stared at the vivid red 2 above Evan's head.

Strangely, I didn't think anything at all. It felt more like a stone that had been hanging over me for ages had finally crashed to the ground.

Evan didn't notice anything was wrong. He came home as usual, shrugged off his coat, and wrapped me in a hug, mumbling that work had worn him out.

As if nothing had changed.

Maybe success really did flatter a man. Years later, Evan wasn't any less handsome; if anything, he was more so. His dark, laughing eyes and elegant features made his fans joke that every fictional rake finally had a face.

Before today, no one would have guessed I was the only person Evan Hart had ever slept with.

But now there was another.

Once you know the answer, tracing the steps that led there is easy.

After Evan fell asleep that night, I unlocked his phone. The passcode was still my birthday. I searched every social-media app. Everything looked normal.

But the numbers never lied.

The first person whose number had ever alarmed me was my father.

To the world, he was a devoted husband and family man. In a single month, though, the number over his head rose again and again.

I refused to believe it. I followed him in secret, and watched him walk out of an apartment building as that number ticked up by one.

I had never doubted the numbers after that.

Then, scrolling through Evan's contacts, I found an unlisted number. One call had lasted an hour and forty-six minutes.

My instincts told me it was the one.

I tapped it. A soft ringtone sounded, and the call was answered almost immediately.

A familiar, syrupy voice said, "Why are you calling now? Aren't you worried your wife will find out?"

Then she laughed. "Or did you get a taste of me and decide you can't get enough?"

I said nothing. I ended the call and erased it from the log.

Holding the phone, I sat rigidly on the living-room couch. Only after a long while did the pain finally reach my heart.

The last scraps of hope shattered with it.