Chapter 3

The next morning I woke up suddenly, confused and blinking, a sound from the next room startling me awake. The still-warm sheets let me know that Misha was still around. Usually he’d be gone by now, or nudging me awake to make him breakfast, but today he let me sleep in. Smiling, I thought of our night together. We made love like newlyweds, and as I uncurled my body, I could feel the ache of his attention in every sore muscle.

As I took my first, deep breath, the inviting aroma of freshly-brewed coffee blended with the sizzling flavor of melting butter awakened my hunger. Curious, I rolled over and slipped my feet into soft slippers.

Of all the things I had imagined I’d find, I hadn’t been expecting to find my husband wearing an apron over his fine suit as he stood in the kitchen, flipping pancakes with careful, practiced precision. 

“Good Morning, Angel,” my husband called over his shoulder at my approaching footsteps. “Breakfast’s ready.” 

Misha, a man who has sworn for years that he doesn’t know how to start the coffee pot, was to my utter shock, flipping pancakes like a pro while humming a light-hearted melody. Mesmerized, I watched the dance of his graceful motions as another pancake landed on top of a small, perfectly-crisped, golden-brown stack. 

I can’t remember a time when he ever made me breakfast. It was so romantic that my heart flipped as a smile stretched from ear to ear and I said,  “It smells amazing in here,” as I reached over with a fork. 

“Stop!” Misha blocked my hand with the spatula, tapping my wrist. “Sorry Ari, these aren’t for you.” He frowned, shaking his head. “I made you oatmeal.” He nodded towards a simmering pot in the corner of the stove. “Oh, and you can have some of the leftover strawberries, if you’d like.” 

Confused, I withdrew my hand. “Oatmeal?” I asked, pointing at the pancakes, “didn’t you make those for me?”

Chuckling, he shook his head. “Oh, no, these are for one of my coworkers. You wouldn’t like them, they’re too sweet.” 

I love sweet things. Especially strawberries. After three years of marriage, I was surprised and hurt that he didn’t remember that. When we went out to breakfast together, he was the one eating something savory, like eggs, leaving the “breakfast pastries,” to me. 

Strawberry pancakes were one of my favorite treats.

Which is why I was so surprised when he then upturned the entire dish of sliced and sugared strawberries, the one he had just offered to me, into a small container, sealing them tight and handing me the dirty bowl with a couple of small slivers of fruit remaining. 

“Here you go,” he offered, nodding again towards the simmering pot. “There should be enough left there to flavor the oats.” 

I tried to smile, but the best I could manage was a thin-lipped grin as Misha turned to gently layer his artfully-made breakfast inside of an insulated bag. 

Reluctantly, I lifted the lid of the oatmeal pot and  did my best not to curl my lip at the disgusting, grayish mash. I’ve never liked oatmeal. 

I was half-way to convincing myself that if I add enough cream and sugar to my cup of coffee, the oatmeal might be almost palatable, when Misha reached around me again, nudging me out of the way. 

“Excuse me,” Misha grabbed the full, fresh pot of coffee and then, as I watched in horror, poured the entire carafe inside a large thermos which he placed in the insulated bag with everything else–Leaving coffee grounds and crumbs as the only remnant of the beautiful meal he had made. A meal I thought he had made for me, for us, to share. 

I guess I was wrong. 

“I’ll see you after work,” Misha grinned over his shoulder, oblivious to the aching worry climbing its way up my chest from the depths of my tender, confused heart.

This man, who has always found cooking to be “a chore,” just spent his morning making pancakes with strawberries, to share with somebody else. 

A coworker. 

“I might be late,” he said as he almost danced to the door, as graceful and carefree as a young man in love. ”Don’t wait up.” 

Don’t wait up. 

*****

They say that hindsight is 20/20, and looking back now, all the signs of what would come next were there to see. But back then, like a little girl with her eyes squeezed shut, her fingers jammed in her ears as she denied her ability to perceive what was right in front of her, I was too stubbornly blind to see what was right in front of me.

And so I spent the morning unable to explain why my heart was unsettled until a few hours later, Julia Carter’s name blinked across the screen. My mother-in-law was getting older, and managing her house had become more and more of a chore. As a way to smooth over relations between us, soon after Misha and I were married, I began helping out around Carter Manor. 

Yes, they have extensive staff to manage most of the minor daily things–like washing dishes and polishing floors–but Julia Carter was very…particular. She liked things done a certain way, and preferred to do much of the household work herself.

Or she did, until I married her son. Now she has me to order around.

“Why aren’t you here, Ariana?” Julia snapped before I could even say hello, her elegant voice sharp and cutting. “I expected you here hours ago. Just because my son supports you doesn’t mean you get to spend all day playing games on your computer and neglecting your responsibilities to this family,” she huffed, exasperated as she added, “No wonder you never finished school. You lack the work ethic.” 

Sighing, I pinched the bridge of my nose and inhaled slowly as she continued her rant. I’ve tried telling her in the past that I’m taking online courses to finish my post-graduate work, but Julia never believed me. 

To say that Julia Carter and I do not get along would be an understatement–she’s hated me from the first moment Misha brought me home after our elopement. It had been a huge disappointment to Julia that her only son, the family’s golden boy, had “lowered himself” to marry the “gold-digging daughter of a second-rate businessman.”  She had hoped he’d marry up, find an appropriate companion from an exclusively small list of equally impressive families, and begin having children immediately to continue and enhance the Carter line.

Julia wanted this future so badly for her son, that when Misha and I returned home after our honeymoon in Napa, she prepared a “welcome home party” that had included an almost all-female guest list that read like a “who’s who” of New York elite between the ages of 18-30. 

That night, when we arrived at the celebration together, she feigned shock, seeming offended that he had brought an “uninvited” guest. Then, instead of welcoming her son’s new wife as a daughter, rather than introduce herself, she ignored me, turned to her son, and asked, “Is she pregnant?” 

I’m still not sure if she was more or less disappointed to hear that I wasn’t. Three years later, things have remained tense between us, no matter how hard I try to show her how much I care about her son and our family.

“Are you still there, Ariana?” Julia’s crisp voice rings through my ear. “I said…”

“I’ll be there in 20 minutes,” I promised, hanging up quickly before she spent another 15 minutes complaining. Knowing Julia, she’s already set a timer just to see if I’d keep my word. 

At this time of day, there wasn’t any traffic, and I expected the ride to be uneventful. Except that as I marched towards my car, I remembered that I had forgotten to stop for gas before reaching home. 

Thankfully, parked right next to my small coupe was Misha’s weekend car, the BMW convertible he likes to drive when he has enough time to enjoy the ride. I had the spare key that he gave me for emergencies, one that I have used maybe once or twice during our entire marriage. While this wasn’t technically an emergency, my stomach twisted when I thought of how insufferable Julia would be if I delayed another 10 minutes just to get gas. 

My hands brushed the fine, heated leather as the car purred to life. Adjusting myself, my body felt strange. It took me a moment to realize why–the seat was in the wrong spot. Usually, Misha has it adjusted for his height of 6’2”. A few clicks on the seat adjuster is usually enough for me to get it down to my height, 5’8”.

But today, my knees are almost touching the steering wheel. The seat has already been adjusted–Not to my height, but to someone much shorter. 

“Maybe he let one of his co-workers borrow the car,” I mused aloud. It is a probable conclusion, except that I know my husband and how particular he is about his things. He never lets anyone borrow his cars, especially not this car. 

 I didn’t have time to make sense of it now. I pressed the button to adjust the seat, but it didn’t move. Frowning, I pressed it again and heard a crunch, like foil being folded. Startled, I stepped out of the car and kneeled down to look at the mechanism. 

Jammed in between the seat and the gears was a shining piece of gold foil. 

Carefully I unwedged it. The foil is ornate, shaped like a flower, at the end of which is a delicate hook. It’s an earring. I don’t remember having a pair that looks like this. Using my hand, I search for another, just in case. 

And that’s when I felt something that made my chest tighten and my stomach flip. Scraped along the carpet of the floor mat are long, thin divots–as if it had been stabbed repeatedly by stiletto heels. 

I never wear stilettos. I hardly ever wear heels if I can avoid it. And never, ever when driving a car.

“It could have been caused by anything,” I sighed as I shook my head. “I shouldn’t jump to conclusions.”

But as I pulled the car out of the garage, an unwanted image flashed through my mind. I saw a woman sitting in this car sitting exactly where I am, her delicate hands holding the steering wheel as Misha smiles at her, praising her driving. They pull over, and Misha reaching to unbuckle her seatbelt pauses, his mouth inches above hers. She licks her lips and he kisses her, leaning the seat backwards as he lifts her skirt. She grinds her heels, as he nestles between her legs and…