Your Husband's Real Wife
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At Celina, home alone, doing laundry
The hum of the washing machine filled the apartment, steady and rhythmic. Celina folded one of Gabriel’s shirts on the dining table, the clean cotton still warm from the dryer.
She reached for his blazer, shaking it out before laying it flat. As she smoothed her hands over the fabric, something slid out of the inner pocket and fluttered to the floor.
She bent to pick it up.
A business card. Clean, thick stock. Elegant serif font.
Celina frowned.
Andrea Velasco-Reyes