Chapter 2: Training with a Secret
The air in the corporate gym tasted like recycled sweat and artificial lemon. Fluorescent lights bleached everything a sickly white, buzzing with a persistent, headache-inducing hum. Julie’s legs trembled as she descended from the step-up platform, the burn in her quadriceps a bright, satisfying pain. She visualized it: not the platform, but a steep, rocky trail. Not the rubber mat underfoot, but loose scree. And the hands she imagined on her hips, steadying her for the next push, weren’t hers.
“You’re going to turn into a mountain goat, Julie.” Sabine’s voice cut through the thud of her heartbeat in her ears. Sabine, from the new hiking club, leaned against a nearby elliptical, her own workout clearly secondary to the gossip. “Seriously, what’s the target? You’re here every day. Is it that Alps trip in the fall?”
Julie grabbed her towel, dabbed at the sweat running down her neck. “Something like that,” she said, her voice pleasantly noncommittal. “Just want to be ready. Hate feeling weak on a climb.” Every word was true, yet a complete lie. The target wasn’t the Alps. It was a volcano in Tanzania. The weakness she feared wasn’t physical.
“Well, you’ll be ready to carry my pack for me at this rate,” another woman, Lena, chimed in with a laugh. “You’re a machine lately.”
Julie offered a tight smile, gulping water from her bottle. They saw discipline. They saw a forty-two-year-old mother reclaiming her fitness. They didn’t see the secret fuel. They didn’t see the flash of a video call screen in her memory, the raw hunger in a man’s voice from across an ocean, the phantom feel of a silicone toy that stood in for a person. Every drop of sweat was an offering. Every aching muscle was a promise. She was not just training her body; she was laundering her desire, converting illicit longing into respectable stamina.
Later, showered and back in her car, the familiar scent of her vanilla air freshener clashing with the lingering chlorine on her skin, she pulled out her phone. The secret email account was a second heartbeat. A new message from Mark.
Flight booked. You?
Her heart quickened. They’d agreed: separate bookings, separate airlines. Different arrival times, different booking references. A solo female traveler and a man with friends. No obvious link. She hasn't booked yet. She hasn't told anyone yet. The deception was taking shape, solidifying from fantasy into itineraries and confirmation codes. But first she needed her new hobby to take root.
The real work happened at home, after the bedtime stories were read and the lunches were packed for tomorrow. Her husband, was downstairs watching a football match, the commentator’s excited drone a distant murmur. Her sanctum was the small, organized desk in the corner of their home. Spreadsheets were her language. She had one for the household budget, another for the kids’ school activities. And now, a third, hidden in a folder labeled “Tax Prep 2026.”
This one mapped a different kind of liability. It listed required gear: high-altitude boots, thermal layers, a -20°C sleeping bag. Each purchase was carefully planned. She had a column for plausible cover stories for every item, a column for cash withdrawals to explain the expenses, and a timeline integrating her “training” with the gradual accumulation of kit.
The door to the bedroom opened, and she minimized the screen with a practiced, swift click. Philippe stood there, looking tired but content, still in his work trousers and a loose shirt.
“You’re working late,” he said, coming over to kiss the top of her head. He smelled of his aftershave and the vague, metallic scent of the office.
“Just finalizing the quarterly files for Dupont,” she lied smoothly, tilting her head back to meet his kiss. “It’s tedious.”
“You’re the best,” he murmured, his hand resting on her shoulder for a moment. “Don’t stay up too late.” He moved towards the bathroom, and she heard the water start for his shower.
The guilt was a cold stone in her stomach. It wasn’t a sharp stab, more a heavy, constant presence, like a lead apron. She looked at the wedding photo on her desk—her younger self in a white dress. That girl had been curious, but safe. This woman, with her crow’s feet and spreadsheet of lies, was a stranger. A thrilling, terrified stranger.
She reopened her secret email. Mark had written again.
MarkD: Got the boots today. Stiff as hell. Breaking them in feels like walking with bricks strapped to my feet.
MarkD: All I can think about is you breaking in yours. Just in your underwear. And me, breaking you in them...
A flush spread across her chest. This was the other spreadsheet, the one made of pulses and body heat. Their communication had become a dual ledger. One line item was logistics: flights, gear, vaccines. The next was raw, explicit fuel: memories of last times, fantasies of the mountain, the specific, punishing intimacy of what they were planning.
She typed back, her words stark against the blue glow of the screen.
JulieMar: Mine are giving me blisters. Raw spots. I’m letting them heal. I like the reminder. It’s a promise. Every step here is one step closer to being alone with you for two weeks.
She hit send before she could overthink it. This was the calculus. The guilt was the price. This electric current running through her—the anticipation that made her breath catch when her phone buzzed, the way her body responded to a mere string of words—this was the dividend.
Downstairs, the TV went silent. His footsteps sounded on the stairs. She closed everything, opened a legitimate accounting file just as he walked back in, his hair damp.
“Coming to bed?” he asked.
“Soon,” she said, giving him what she hoped was a warm, wifely smile.
He got into bed, picking up his book. Julie looked at her screen, at the columns of dry figures. Then she looked at the secret folder icon, a bland, beige square. Inside it was a volcano, and a man, and a version of herself she thought had vanished twenty years ago. She felt the blister on her heel throb against her slipper.
Every step was a promise. And the mountain was waiting. But the biggest obstacle remained.
JulieMar: I haven't told him yet.
MarkD: Julie, it's in three months. Have you booked anything?
JulieMar: I can't. I'd need to justify the expense.