Page 32 of Mr. and Mrs. Novak

Tears slip free despite my efforts, and I turn my head away. I don’t want him to see. I don’t want his guilt or his remorse.

I’m going to erase him from my life. For good.

17. First Suspicions

RUSLAN

The next morning, I set my plan in motion. I place my wallet carefully on the living room table, arranging it just right. The photos peek out just enough to catch her attention. Then, I lock myself in my office, heart pounding, waiting for Sophia to notice what I deliberately left in plain sight.

But when I step out at lunchtime, the wallet hasn’t moved an inch. Of course. How could I be so stupid? This is Sophia, not some ordinary woman who would give in to the temptation of snooping through my things. Sitting on the couch, she sorts through the mail without sparing me a glance.

My mind races. I need to find another way—and fast. So I fake a clumsy move, a misstep, a sudden jerk. The wallet drops, and as it hits the floor, the photos scatter like undeniable proof of my guilt.

I can’t be sure she saw them. Her face remains impassive, but I know her well enough to notice the subtle tension in her shoulders, the slight way her fingers tighten around the envelope she’s holding. Pushing further would be a mistake. Sophia is too smart; she’d see right through the manipulation.

So, with a deliberately rushed gesture, I gather the photos, shoving them back into my wallet with feigned nervousness before slipping it into my jacket. I avoid meeting her gaze, adding to the illusion.

During lunch, Sophia’s silence is deafening. She’s physically there, but her mind is somewhere else. She barely speaks, and every movement betrays a new distance, a calculated coldness that confirms my plan worked.

The gap between us has never been wider. Since that day, she hasn’t mentioned Stanislas or Natasha once. I should be relieved, but I’m not. A voice deep inside whispers that I might have just made the biggest mistake of my life.

***

Consumed by Gloventis, by the strategy against Stanford, and by finding a way to protect Sophia as much as possible, I don’t immediately notice what’s happening right in front of me. But as the days pass, unsettling details begin to pile up.

Sophia is an IT consultant, which comes with certain expectations—unusual hours, absolute confidentiality. She alternates between working from home and going to an anonymous high-rise in the business district, one of those impersonal buildings where companies blur into each other. Her biggest "client"? A complete mystery.

At first, I chalked up her discipline to meticulous personal organization. But in hindsight, everything is too smooth, too perfectly orchestrated.

Only by observing her closely do I realize just how sophisticated her cover is. Every detail is calibrated to avoid suspicion while giving her total freedom of movement.

The shy little mouse I married has been playing a far bigger game.

Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, she leaves the penthouse at exactly 8:30 AM. Charcoal-gray suit, Italian heels. Impeccable elegance. She returns at 6:30 PM. When I try to dig deeper, she shrugs it off with carefully measured indifference.

"Protocol audits, penetration testing… You know how it is."

Her tone is detached, almost bored.

Tuesdays and Thursdays, she works from home. Her office door stays locked, but I hear muffled conversations and the rapid clicking of her keyboard.

Everything checks out. And yet… something feels off.

I’m sure she’s hiding something from me.

Determined to get to the bottom of this, I take advantage of her absence and a rainy day to stage a leak on the rooftop terrace. The result: a flood that turns her office into a disaster zone. She tries to retreat to her bedroom with her equipment, but Asli won’t have it.

“It’s not healthy to work where you sleep,” our housekeeper declares in a tone that brooks no argument. “You’ll set up in the living room until the repairs are done.”

She shoots me one of her signature reproachful looks, as if I’m personally responsible not only for the leak but also for the fact that my wife sleeps in a separate bedroom. If only she knew… I’d love nothing more than to share my bed with Sophia. The images that flood my mind at that thought are anything but chaste. I push them away quickly—this isn’t the time or place.

Standing in the living room, Sophia checks her watch for the third time in five minutes, an unusual nervousness in her movements. She glances furtively toward the exit, like a deer on high alert, searching for an escape. I pretend to have an urgent work matter to avoid pressuring her and disappear into my office. But from behind my closed door, I listen. Her need to maintain her cover eventually wins out over her urge to flee, and I hear her settle into the living room. The morning drags on in near silence, broken only by the distant clatter of her keyboard. By lunchtime, when I step out, her equipment is already neatly packed away in a hard-shell case.

By late afternoon, I leave my den earlier than usual, around 5:30 PM, determined to unravel her secrets. She’s seated in the cream leather armchair by the bay window, laptop on her knees. The sun's rays at the end of the day filter through the glass and form a golden halo around her silhouette. Her brows knit together ever so slightly when she sees me—a micro-expression I wouldn’t have noticed a few weeks ago.

“Hey,” I say in a deliberately casual tone.

“Hey,” she replies without looking up, her fingers flying across the keyboard in a relentless rhythm.