Chapter 4

Graham walked through the door on Friday evening, looking completely at ease.

He carried a large shopping bag, acting as if yesterday's broken promise hadn't even happened.

"To make up for the science fair, buddy," Graham said. He pulled a professional-grade baseball glove from the tissue paper.

Miles stared at the expensive leather. He hadn't played baseball in two years. He built model rockets now.

"Thanks," Miles said flatly. He left the glove on the kitchen counter.

Graham didn't even notice the rejection.

He walked over and wrapped his arms around my waist, pressing a warm kiss to my temple.

"I need you to pack a bag," he murmured affectionately. "I booked you and Miles the penthouse suite at the Four Seasons for the weekend."

"Why?" I asked.

"A corporate security issue," he lied smoothly. "My team needs to use this house to host a visiting board member. It's strictly confidential, but I want you two somewhere safe and luxurious."

He kissed my forehead and headed upstairs to shower.

He left his iPad resting on the kitchen island. A minute later, the screen lit up.

Camille: Thank you for letting me stay at the house this weekend. I can't wait to have you all to myself.

I stared at the glowing words.

He was actively kicking his wife and child out of their own home so he could move his mistress into my living room.

I walked into his home office.

His leather outbox was sitting on the desk, right where I always left his routine paperwork. My lawyer had couriered the preliminary divorce and custody agreements that morning.

I didn't hesitate. I took the thick stack of legal papers and slid them right into the middle of his quarterly expense reports. I buried the end of our marriage between his NDA authorizations.

When Graham came back downstairs, he was completely distracted by his phone.

"Just a few things you need to sign before we leave," I said, handing him a pen.

"Right. Good catch," he said.

He flipped open the folder. He didn't read a single line. He just blindly scrawled his signature on every page I pointed to.

With every stroke of his pen, he unknowingly signed a legal permission slip for me to take our son and leave.

"All done," Graham smiled. "I need to take a quick call upstairs. Are you two packed?"

"Almost," I said.

Graham hurried up the stairs.

A moment later, the heavy oak front door clicked open.

Camille stepped into the foyer. She hadn't even waited for us to leave.

She looked at the duffel bags sitting by the stairs, then directly at my son.

"You must be Miles," Camille said, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness.

I stepped immediately in front of him. "Get out."

Camille ignored me. She rested a hand on her flat stomach and looked right past my shoulder.

"I'm going to have a baby," Camille told my nine-year-old son. Her eyes flashed with cruel triumph. "Your dad and I are having a baby. We're the family he actually wants. That's why you have to leave."

Suddenly, the urgent hotel booking made sickening sense. Graham was rushing us out the door so he could play house with his pregnant mistress.

Furious, protective heat exploded in my chest. I opened my mouth, ready to unleash every ounce of rage I had left.

But a small hand tugged on my sleeve.

I looked down. Miles wasn't crying. His face was completely blank.

He didn't look devastated. He just looked terribly tired.

"Mom," Miles said quietly, glancing toward the door. "Can we go now?"

Camille's triumphant smile faltered. She had wanted to break him, but he didn't even care enough to be hurt.

"Yes, baby," I said. "We're going."

I walked over to the hallway wall. I pulled the nine framed photographs off the hooks and dropped them directly into the heavy metal trash can.

The glass clattered loudly against the bottom.

I picked up our bags. I didn't look at Camille again.

I took my son's hand, and we walked out the door. We left Graham to the life he had chosen, inside a house that was no longer ours.