CHAPTER 3- JUST A COLLEAGUE

Every time I closed my eyes I saw that name, glowing on a dark screen, sharp as a paper cut.

Celeste Vane.

A name I had never heard in my life. A name that shouldn't have mattered at all. And yet it sat in my chest all night, refusing to leave.

By three in the morning Dominic was asleep beside me, breathing slow and even, completely unaware, while I lay staring at the ceiling and feeling something shift quietly underneath me — the floor of my own marriage, tilting half a degree in a direction I didn't want to look at.

When had I gone from trusting this man to lying awake building a case against him?

The worst part was hating myself for even asking the question. For years he'd given me no reason to doubt him.

Busy, yes. Distracted, yes. But never, not once dishonest.

At least, that's what I'd always believed. And believing it had felt like standing on solid ground.

Now the ground had a crack in it, and I couldn't stop staring at the crack instead of looking away like a sensible person would.

Luca's cry came through the monitor just after six. I slipped out of bed before it could wake Dominic.

"Good morning to you too, mommy's little one."

I lifted him out and pressed a kiss to his forehead, breathing him in.

"Your mother used to sleep, you know. It used to be a whole thing I did."

He grabbed a fistful of my hair and yanked, gleeful.

"That's assault." I said.

He drooled on my shoulder in response, completely unrepentant, fair enough.

At least someone in this apartment was being honest about their feelings.

When I carried him into the kitchen, Dominic was already there — actually sitting at the island, coffee in hand, not halfway out the door.

Something in me eased a little at the sight, that small unguarded hope flickering before I could stop it. Maybe this morning will be different.

"Morning," I said.

He glanced up from his phone. "Morning."

The phone first. Always the phone first. The familiar ache settled back into my chest like it had never left..

I busied myself making Luca's bottle, my hands moving on autopilot while my mind turned the question over and over.

‘Let it go. You're making something out of nothing. She's probably just a colleague. Normal wives don't interrogate their husbands over a text message that vanished in half a second.’ I thought.

I turned around before I could lose my nerve, my heart suddenly loud in my own ears.

"Who's Celeste?"

Dominic's eyes came up from the screen. For one second, one single second — he looked genuinely thrown, like I had asked him something in a language he didn't speak.

Then something settled into his face. Not shock. Not panic.

Recognition.

"Celeste?"

"The woman who texted you last night."

His expression hardened — not dramatically, just a fraction, a tightening around the eyes.

"She's a colleague."

The answer came too fast, like it had been sitting there pre-loaded, waiting for the question.

"We work together."

"On what?"

A small crease appeared between his brows. "A project."

"What kind of project?"

He looked annoyed now — properly annoyed and that landed harder than I expected. I hadn't accused him of anything. I hadn't raised my voice.

I asked one simple question, twice, and somehow I already felt like I had done something wrong just by opening my mouth.

"Why does it matter?"

"I was just asking."

"Amara." His voice dropped — that low, even tone, the one I imagined his executives heard right before a meeting went badly for them.

"She works with me. That's all."

Silence settled between us. Heavy and unfamiliar in a way that frightened me. The kind of silence that hadn't existed between us a year ago.

A year ago we'd have laughed about something like this, and I'd have known the names of all his colleagues.

Now I felt like I was interviewing a stranger across my own kitchen. I hated that thought almost as much as I hated how true it felt sitting in my chest.

"I'm sorry," I said quietly.

The tension dropped out of his shoulders instantly — visibly, like a held breath finally released.

That hurt more than anything he'd said. Because it meant he'd been waiting for it. Waiting for me to be the one to fold.

"I just haven't been sleeping much," I added, my voice smaller than I wanted it to be.

His face softened. Not all the way, but enough that I could pretend it was enough.

"You don't need to apologize."

And yet I always did. Every single time.

I smiled, and changed the subject to something about Luca's nap schedule. Spent the rest of breakfast pretending there wasn't a hairline crack running straight down the middle of my chest, widening very slightly every time I breathed.

That evening Dominic told me he had another late meeting.

I nodded and said okay. I didn't ask anything else — I had learned that much, at least, in the last twelve hours.

He left around six, jacket slung over one arm, already half-lost in his phone before he'd even reached the door.

I watched him go and told myself, again, that this was normal. That this was just what his job looked like sometimes.

It was nearly nine when I finally went to hang up the jacket he'd worn the night before.

I picked it up to carry it to the wardrobe, and something slipped loose from the inside pocket.

A small folded piece of paper fluttered down and landed silently on the floor.

I picked it up the way you pick up anything, a receipt, a leaflet, nothing — my mind was still half on Luca's bath time.

Then I actually looked at it.

A restaurant receipt. Dated the night before. The night he'd told me he was working late at the office.

Two starters. Two mains. A bottle of wine.

Table for two.

I stood there holding it, the small slip of paper suddenly weighing more than anything had a right to weigh, and felt the floor tilt again.

Further this time, sharper, the way it does right before you realize you're actually falling and not just imagining it.

He wasn’t at the office. He was at dinner. And he definitely wasn't alone.