Chapter 1

I discovered on the eve of my thirty-fifth birthday that my husband had been cheating on me for 1,652 days—and that the woman he was hiding was three months pregnant.

The espresso machine hummed on the marble island. Apart from the ticking clock, the penthouse was silent.

It was 9:30 p.m.

Tonight was our fifth wedding anniversary. Tomorrow was my birthday.

Twenty minutes earlier, Preston had called, sounding weak and exhausted.

“Something went wrong with the international audit,” he said. “I’ll have to stay at the office all night. My stomach is acting up again, but don’t worry about me. I’m sorry about dinner, baby. I promise I’ll make your birthday special tomorrow.”

Preston suffered from chronic gastritis. The strain in his voice made my chest tighten with worry.

He had left his work tablet on the coffee table, so I picked it up and opened the delivery app. I intended to send chicken-and-rice soup to his office—the kind he always asked me to make when his stomach hurt.

I selected the soup and proceeded to checkout.

Then I saw the default delivery address.

Riverside Crown, Penthouse 3201.

It was not Preston’s office. It was not one of our properties.

Riverside Crown was one of the most private luxury apartment buildings in the city.

Beneath the address was a saved delivery note:

Three months pregnant. No raw cheese, no alcohol, and nothing spicy. Please knock softly. Do not ring the bell—the lady is a light sleeper.

Three months pregnant?

The word lady seemed to pulse on the screen.

My fingers turned cold.

I opened the order history.

For the past three months, meals had been delivered to Penthouse 3201 almost every day: prenatal breakfasts, fresh fruit, ginger tea, soup, desserts and late-night snacks.

The delivery times matched Preston’s “emergency meetings,” “business dinners” and “overnight audits.”

I kept scrolling.

Before the prenatal meals came flowers, jewelry, private dinners and weekend hotel reservations.

Then I found the first order.

Two desserts. A bottle of champagne. A room at a couples’ hotel on the west side of the city.

The note read:

For our first night together.

The date was exactly 1,652 days ago.

Four years, six months and eight days.

My husband had begun betraying me only months after our wedding.

I remembered every excuse I had made for him during those years.

He was under pressure.

The company needed him.

Marriage required trust.

For 1,652 days, I had protected a man who had been lying to my face.

A notification suddenly appeared at the top of the tablet.

Your order has been accepted. Delivery destination: Riverside Crown, Penthouse 3201.

Someone had just placed the order remotely through Preston’s connected phone.

Freshly prepared ginger tea, honey cake and a prenatal fruit bowl.

It was 9:38 p.m.

Less than ten minutes earlier, Preston had told me his stomach hurt and that he would be working at the office all night.

My hand moved instinctively to my still-flat stomach.

That morning, I had sat alone in the clinic parking lot and cried with happiness over the document now hidden inside my handbag.

Ten weeks pregnant.

After years of hoping, Preston and I were finally having a baby.

I had planned to give him the ultrasound report at our anniversary dinner. I had imagined his disbelief, his laughter and the way he would pull me into his arms.

Instead, he was sending food to another pregnant woman.

For several seconds, I could not breathe.

Then I opened the camera on my phone.

I photographed the address, the delivery instructions and every order I could find. I screen-recorded the entire history, including the first hotel reservation from 1,652 days ago, and uploaded everything to an encrypted folder.

Only after the files were secured did I turn off the tablet and return it to the exact place where Preston had left it.

I removed the ultrasound report from my handbag.

The tiny shape in the black-and-white image blurred behind my tears.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, pressing one hand over my stomach.

I wasn’t sure whether I was apologizing to my child or to the woman I had been for the past five years.

At 7:03 the next morning, the smart lock turned.

I folded the ultrasound report, slipped it back into my handbag and wiped the tears from my face.

Then my husband came home.