Chapter 2

My husband had not hidden one child from me.

He had hidden 1,825 ordinary nights.

The next morning, Ethan woke up before me. When I walked into the kitchen, the smell of toasted bread and warm milk filled the air.

He took one look at my pale face and immediately put down his coffee mug.

"You didn't sleep well," he said, wrapping his warm hands around mine. "I'm canceling my morning meetings. I'll stay home with you today."

"You don't have to," I whispered.

"Yes, I do," he replied softly. He pulled me into his chest, resting his chin on top of my head. "I know what today is, Nora. It's been six years since we lost the baby. I'm not leaving you alone today."

My heart physically ached.

He remembered. He remembered the darkest day of my life, and he wanted to be there to hold my hand. He had always remembered the moments that hurt me.

He loved me.

And that was the most terrifying part of all. His love was entirely real.

And so was his betrayal.

He pulled back just enough to look into my eyes.

"I was thinking," he said gently "We should finally renovate that empty room upstairs. We can turn it into a children's reading room. I already started looking at bookshelves."

He smiled, a hopeful, tender look in his eyes.

"Maybe one day, Nora, we can finish the last page of the little comet together."

"Okay," I managed to say. "Let's do that."

An hour later, Ethan went upstairs to take a shower.

I stood in the kitchen. The spare tablet on the counter lit up with a system update for a parenting app.

I picked it up. My fingers didn't even tremble when I bypassed his simple passcode.

I opened the app's history.

The first recorded call took place exactly three days after Sophie was born.

I scrolled down, watching five years of my marriage unfold in time stamps and call durations.

October 14th. Sophie had a high fever. The call duration was seven hours. Ethan had stayed on the phone with her the entire night while I slept in the next room.

September 2nd. Sophie's first day of preschool. He had spent an hour practicing her self-introduction with her over video.

July 18th. A massive thunderstorm. He read to her until 3:00 AM.

I even found records from our wedding anniversary trip to Paris last year.

The logs showed he had locked himself in the hotel bathroom for forty minutes every night, whispering bedtime stories to another woman’s child while I waited in bed.

This was not a man occasionally taking responsibility for a mistake.

This was a man who woke up every single day for five years and actively chose to deceive me to protect his perfect double life.

I didn't smash the tablet. I didn't run upstairs and throw his clothes onto the lawn.

I calmly set the device down on the cold marble counter.

My hands moved steadily across my own phone screen. I opened my camera and captured every page of his call logs, making sure every date and timestamp was perfectly clear.

Then, I opened my email and drafted a brief message to a local divorce lawyer.

Before putting my phone away, I made one last call.

I contacted my obstetrician and quietly transferred all my future prenatal appointments to a small clinic in my mother's hometown.

At 9:25 PM that night, Ethan looked at his watch.

"I have an urgent overseas call with the London partners, babe," he said, kissing my cheek. "I'll take it in the study."

"Okay," I said.

He walked down the hall. The heavy oak door of the study clicked shut.

At 9:30 PM, I heard the muffled, gentle cadence of his voice reading a story.

Twenty minutes later, the tablet on the counter chimed silently.

1,826 completed bedtime sessions.

The study door opened. Ethan walked out, loosening his tie. He looked tired but relieved.

"Did the overseas meeting end?" I asked quietly.

"Yes," he sighed, walking over to pour himself a glass of water. "Finally over. The partners were a nightmare today."

He drank his water. He didn't look guilty. He didn't show a single sign of wanting to confess.

He set the glass down and turned to me with an apologetic smile.

"By the way, darling," he said, "I have to leave tomorrow morning for a two-day, closed-door company retreat. It's mandatory for all executives. I'll have to stay overnight."

"A closed-door retreat," I repeated softly.

"Yes. I'm sorry to leave you alone, especially this week. I'll make it up to you when I get back. Wait for me."

"Drive safe," I told him.

He kissed my forehead and went upstairs to pack his bags.

I stayed in the kitchen. I looked down at the tablet screen one last time.

His synced calendar was open.

There was no executive retreat.

The schedule for tomorrow was blocked out in bright blue letters:

Father-Daughter Overnight Reading Camp

Ethan Bennett & Sophie Lawson