Chapter 2

He glanced at me, then at his phone.

In the end, he picked up the phone.

Rodney answered, his voice so soft I almost didn't recognize it.

"Rachel, what's wrong?"

I don't know what she said on the other end, but he turned his head to look at me, his tone nothing like the gentle one he'd used on the call.

"Rachel wants pork rib soup. Go back to the old estate tonight, make some, and take it over to her. She's pregnant, so from now on you take good care of her."

I stared at his face.

"I said—di! vorce!"

He hung up, walked over, and grabbed my wrist.

"Divorce what? We just had the wedding last week."

"You will be at the charity gala tomorrow night. Don't let anyone outside catch wind of this. If the stock drops a single point, can you afford it?"

I wrenched my hand free, snatched the ashtray off the table, and hurled it at the floor-to-ceiling window.

I roared,

"While I was being resuscitated in the ICU, you and she were in bed making a baby, and now you want me in the kitchen waiting on her?"

"And putting on some devoted-couple act in front of everyone? Are you out of your damn mind?!"

Rodney's brow furrowed, and he looked at me like I was a lunatic. Three words dropped out of his mouth.

"You're insane."

The door opened.

Rachel stood there in a loose dress, one hand over her lower belly, her eyes red-rimmed, her voice light and soft.

"Rodney, don't blame Mavis... It's my fault, it's the baby being too willful, wanting the pork rib soup you make. Don't blame her for not making room for me."

"Mavis, don't be angry. I really do want to help you. I don't want to watch you suffer through pregnancy again. When this child is born it'll call you Mom..."

Before she could finish, she pressed a hand to her forehead.

Rodney crossed the room in a few quick strides and caught her.

"Who told you to come up here? I told you to wait for me in the car like a good girl. Now you've caught a chill in the wind, and you'll want to throw up again."

Rachel sank into his arms, using his shoulder to block her view, and slowly lifted her head to look at me.

Her expression had changed.

The timidity was gone, replaced by the look only a winner wears.

It was slight—just enough for me alone to see.

A wave of dizziness hit me out of nowhere, and I barely caught myself on the corner of the table.

The anemia symptoms came without any warning.

Rodney saw that something was wrong with me and started to reach out to steady me.

But Rachel, in his arms, suddenly stumbled and swayed as if she'd fall. At that, he instantly pulled his hand back and held her tight.

I watched it all coldly, then reached up, slid the diamond ring off my ring finger, and dropped it into the trash can.

Metal struck the plastic bin with a dull thud.

"Tomorrow, the County Clerk's Office. We're getting divorced."

With that, I walked straight out and never looked back.

And behind me, no one came after me.

I took the elevator down to the first floor and pushed open the company doors.

My assistant jogged over, holding a package.

"Ms. Gibson, this just came by local courier. It's marked that you have to sign for it yourself."

I don't know how I made it back to the car. I only knew the package in my hands was heavy.

I tore it open, and inside was a thick pink journal.

It recorded all of Rachel's sweet, loving daily life.

Every page, every word inside, cut me to pieces.

The first half of the journal was plastered with ticket stubs from flights and attractions.

So it turned out that over the past three years they had gone to Disneyland countless times behind my back.

They'd gone to Aspen, to Miami, even to Iceland—the place I had always dreamed of going.

The laughable part was that every time I planned a trip,

even for our honeymoon, Rodney's brush-off excuse was always that the company was too busy.

So it turned out he wasn't busy at all. He had simply saved every bit of romance and patience for another woman.

I turned a few more pages and, to my shock, saw a hotel room receipt from the exact same time as the day of my first miscarriage—the time was pinned down to the hour.

The next dozen or so pages were plastered with all kinds of hotel records.

On top of that, there were all the movie ticket stubs from the two years they'd spent watching films together, and the handwritten love letters they'd exchanged on Valentine's Day and Sweetest Day.

The most jarring of all were the few photos tucked in among them.

In one photo, Rodney stood at the stove in an apron, gently skimming the foam off the soup in the pot.

You have to understand—he never cooked.

In the ten years we were together, he never so much as poured me a glass of warm water.

The journal slipped through my fingers and fell to the car floor.

Every bit of strength drained out of me, and I slumped over the steering wheel for a long, long time.

At last I straightened up, took out my phone, and pulled up a number I hadn't dialed in a very long time.