Chapter 1

On our wedding anniversary, a delivery arrived at the house. I assumed it was some surprise Tristan Kaufman had arranged.

I opened it to find ninety-nine sets of lingerie.

Signed by his secretary, Leah Pruitt.

I swallowed the tremor in my breath, took our son, and flew to the city where Tristan was on his business trip.

On the giant screen over the plaza, a live feed showed him down on one knee, proposing.

The moment the camera cut to a close-up of the woman he was proposing to, every drop of blood in my body ran backward.

My son gasped. "That's Aunt Leah! Daddy really wasn't lying to me. He said his marriage to Mommy was fake, that it worked out so he could do something big with Aunt Leah, to make up for something he missed before."

On the screen, his arm circled Leah's waist, and he kissed her with feeling.

The plaza roared, cheers deafening.

I turned and dialed a number I hadn't touched in years.

The other end went silent for a beat, then, low: "Okay. I'll come get you. I'll take you away."

If he wanted to make up for what he'd missed with Leah, then I could chase my own dream too. I would join the top Academy of Sciences.

……

On the screen, Tristan knelt on one knee in a bright red suit, his smile radiant.

For a second, my mind went blank.

Once, I'd held up a wine-red cashmere sweater, all eager, telling him to try it on.

He didn't even glance at it. His tone was flat.

"I don't like bright colors. They don't feel right on me."

And now he wore the loudest red there was, kneeling in front of another woman.

Leah was his secretary. She had a particular fondness for red dresses.

For three years, whenever he mentioned her, he'd always said it was "just a working relationship," told me not to overthink it.

Yet every business trip, Leah was on the list.

In every company gala photo, she stood on his right, close in a way no secretary should stand.

I once brought up replacing her. He waved me off, impatient. "She's just good at her job. Don't be unreasonable.

Every trip, his suitcase came stacked with red underwear and red socks.

I'd thought it was just a personal preference and never asked.

So it turned out the signs had been there all along.

Everyone thought Tristan and I were a devoted couple, and the most perfectly matched partners in business too.

He hadn't minded my ordinary background. He married me in the hardest days of building the company.

After the wedding I worked nearly every day of the year, drank myself to a stomach bleed at business dinners, and pulled the Kaufman Group back from the edge of bankruptcy.

Seven years side by side. We had Howie Abbott, and the company finally found solid ground.

But it was only recently that I saw it clearly: there had always been another woman in his heart.

That woman was Leah.

My phone buzzed. Tristan's video call popped up.

His face filled the screen, his smile gentle, his voice warm and close.

"Babe, spending my birthday without you and Howie beside me, it really doesn't feel right."

Something blunt struck me in the chest.

I looked up at the plaza screen, still streaming him live. He stood in the hotel ballroom, roses and balloons behind him, Leah just a few steps away.

"If you miss us that much, then come home."

His body gave a small hitch. "Hester Henson, don't start. I'm swamped with work. Everything I'm doing is for a better life down the road."

A woman's voice drifted faintly through the background. His expression tightened, and he rushed out a "Something came up," and hung up.

On the big screen, he leaned in and slipped an arm around Leah's waist, said something low against her.

I read it off his lips. "Just a nuisance call."

My fists clenched hard.

I drew a long breath, opened my phone, and booked the earliest flight there and back.

On the way home, my son held tight to my arm, his voice shaking. "Mommy, don't leave me!"

I looked down at him, my eyes stinging fiercely.

I wiped the corners, ruffled his hair, and pulled out a smile.

"Come on. Let's go home first."

Two days after we got back, Tristan came home.

He pushed the door open and spread his arms to hug me the way he always did, the same smile from the video call.

"Babe, I'm home. I missed you so much."

A cloying wave of perfume hit my nose.

I shoved him off hard, took half a step back, my voice cold.

"Go take a shower."

Tristan blinked, dipped his head to sniff his own shirt sleeve, then took a change of clothes from the closet and went into the bathroom.

The bathroom door shut. Water started running.

My eyes fell on the shirt he'd just taken off.

The father and son both had sensitive skin. The chemicals at the dry cleaner's brought Howie out in a rash.

The heavy-duty cycle on the washer left him itching across his back after a single wear, and no housekeeper could get the details right.

So I had to wash these clothes by hand, the water tuned just right, the detergent always the fragrance-free, gentle kind.

Five years, and he had never once asked about any of it.

I was still lost in thought when a small hand tugged softly at the hem of my clothes.

My son had come in at some point, tipping his little face up at me, his eyes red-rimmed.

"Mommy, I'm sorry."

"Daddy said before that the thing with Aunt Leah was a secret, that I shouldn't tell you. He said it was a man-to-man promise between him and me… so I didn't say anything. Don't be mad, Mommy, okay?"

I looked down at the fuzzy crown of his head, and my heart felt like a hand had closed around it.

I crouched, wiped the tears from the corners of his eyes with my thumb, and pulled him fully into my arms.

"Howie didn't do anything wrong."

All of it had been Tristan's fault from the very start.

He was the one who lied to the child, who used the child's innocence and trust.

How could I ever blame a little boy who understood none of it.