Chapter 3: Holding On

I cooked while he settled on the couch, beer in one hand, phone in the other. I could hear him laughing at something a low chuckle that used to make me smile but now just made me wonder what was so funny.

Who was so funny.

When I called him to dinner, he came but kept the phone face-down beside his plate. We ate in near silence, the TV filling the void with some crime show neither of us watched.

"This is great, babe," he said around a mouthful of penne. "You're such a good cook."

"Thanks." I pushed my own food around, appetite gone.

His phone buzzed. Once. Twice. Three times in rapid succession.

He glanced at it. His expression shifted just slightly. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"Work?" I asked, keeping my tone casual.

"Yeah. Jensen freaking out about tomorrow's presentation." But his fingers moved fast across the screen, typing something that required his full attention.

I watched him over the rim of my wine glass. Watched the way his eyes softened at whatever he was reading. The way that small smile grew.

I'd seen that smile before. Directed at me, once upon a time.

The phone buzzed again. This time, before the screen went dark, I caught a glimpse of the name.

Kelly 

Not Jensen.

Kelly. With a heart emoji.

"Who's Kelly?" The words escaped before I could cage them.

Marcus's head snapped up. "What?"

"Your phone I saw Kelly's name."

"Oh." He set down his fork, expression carefully neutral. "She's new in accounting Helping with the Harriman account."

"With a heart emoji?"

"Jesus, Eleanor." He laughed, but it sounded forced. "She probably put that in her own contact. You know how young people are with their phones. Everyone's got emojis."

"She put a heart in her own contact? In yourphone?"

"I don't know, maybe we were setting up the team directory and" He stood abruptly, picking up his plate even though it was still half full. "Why are you cross-examining me? I had a long day. Can we not do this?"

"Do what?"

"This. Whatever this is. The suspicion, the questions." He rinsed his plate with sharp, angry movements. "I work my ass off for us, for this house, and you're gonna grill me about emojis?"

Guilt crept up my spine. Maybe I was being paranoid. Maybe I was that wife the insecure, jealous type who couldn't trust her husband.

"I'm sorry," I found myself saying. "You're right I'm just... I don't know. I'm stressed about other things."

"It's fine." But it wasn't. The coldness in his voice lingered long after he went back to the living room, leaving me alone in the perfect kitchen with my swirling doubts.

The perfect life was built on a perfect lie, and I was starting to see the cracks everywhere.

4 months ago,

I had a secret.

Well, two secrets, technically.

The first: I was ten weeks pregnant.

The second: I knew my husband was cheating on me.

I sat in my car in the parking lot of my OB's office, staring at the grainy ultrasound photo on my lap. A tiny blob that barely looked human but was, according to Dr. Martinez, a perfectly healthy fetus with a strong heartbeat.

Your baby is doing beautifully, the doctor had said with a warm smile.

I had smiled back, nodded, asked all the right questions about prenatal vitamins and avoiding soft cheeses. I'd played the role of excited first-time mother perfectly.

I was getting very good at playing roles.

The perfect wife. A woman who didn't notice her husband coming home at midnight smelling like unfamiliar perfume. The woman who believed "working late" and "client dinners" and "staying at Brody's."

And now: the glowing mother-to-be.

My phone buzzed.

Marcus: How'd the appointment go?

At least he'd remembered. That was something.

Me: Good. Baby's healthy. Strong heartbeat.

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

Marcus: That's great babe. Knew everything would be fine. Gotta run into a meeting. Talk tonight?

Me: Sure. Love you.

Marcus: You too.

Not I love you. Just you too.

I stared at those two words and felt the familiar ache in my chest the one that had taken up permanent residence about two months ago, right around the time I'd found a second hotel receipt. And then a third. And then stopped counting.

I'd been twelve weeks pregnant when I found that first receipt. Had been so happy, so naively optimistic, planning how to tell Marcus in some cute way with tiny shoes or a onesie.

Then I'd found evidence of The Grandview Hotel, Room 412, and suddenly cute announcements seemed obscene.

I'd told him at dinner, plain and simple. "I'm pregnant."

His reaction had been... muted. A hug that lasted two seconds too short. A "that's great, babe" that sounded like he was reading from a script. Then immediately: "We should probably start looking at bigger places. This condo won't work with a kid."

Not I'm so happy or we're going to be parents or I love you.

Still, I told myself it was shock. That he needed time to adjust. That he'd come around.

That was six weeks ago.

He hadn't come around.

He'd gotten worse.

I drove home on autopilot, the ultrasound photo tucked carefully in my purse. I'd planned to put it on the fridge, maybe text a photo to Zara, start making this pregnancy feel real.

But when I walked into our condo, I found Marcus's laptop on the kitchen counter.

He'd left in a hurry that morning overslept, rushed out the door still pulling on his jacket, muttering about being late for a meeting with Jensen.

There was no password required.

I should close it. Should respect his privacy Instead, I found myself standing over it, looking at the open browser tab.