Chapter 3

I kept two cars between Preston’s black Maybach and mine as we drove across the city.

He did not go anywhere near Whitmore Holdings.

Twenty minutes later, he turned into the underground entrance of Riverside Crown.

I parked across the street and watched his car disappear beneath the building.

For several seconds, I remained behind the wheel.

Part of me still wanted an explanation that would make everything I had seen harmless.

Perhaps the apartment belonged to a client.

Perhaps the pregnant woman was a relative.

Perhaps my husband had a reason for sending prenatal meals, jewelry and flowers to someone else.

Then I remembered the message on his phone.

The doctor said the baby is doing well. I missed you after you left.

I took my handbag and crossed the street.

A catering employee entered the lobby ahead of me, carrying an insulated box from an exclusive prenatal meal service. The address printed on the delivery label was visible beneath the clear sleeve.

Penthouse 3201.

My heart began to pound.

I followed at a distance and entered the elevator behind him.

When the doors opened on the thirty-second floor, I slipped behind the half-closed fire door at the end of the corridor.

The catering employee knocked softly.

A few seconds later, the apartment door opened.

The woman standing inside was young and delicate. The pale silk robe covering her body could not completely hide the small curve of her stomach.

Then she turned toward the light.

My blood froze.

Brianna Walsh.

For five years, I had paid her tuition, covered her living expenses and introduced her to people she never would have met on her own.

She had once stood outside my university classroom in a secondhand coat, too embarrassed to admit that she could no longer afford her rent.

I had taken her hand and told her she never needed to feel ashamed in front of me.

I had loved her like a younger sister.

Now she was standing inside my husband’s secret apartment, pregnant and wearing his robe.

The dark blue silk was custom-made. Preston’s initials were embroidered over her heart.

“Please leave it on the entryway table,” Brianna told the catering employee. “The smell of food has been making me nauseous.”

The door opened wider.

Preston stood behind her in his shirtsleeves, holding a cup of coffee.

He had removed his tie. The top buttons of his shirt were open, and his hair was still damp from a shower.

The man who had promised to return and take me to lunch had already made himself at home in another woman’s apartment.

On the wall behind him hung a large framed photograph.

Preston was kneeling on a white carpet with both hands around Brianna’s waist. His lips rested against the faint curve of her bare stomach while she smiled down at him.

I raised my phone and took three photographs.

Brianna wearing his robe.

Preston standing behind her.

The maternity portrait on the wall.

My hands trembled, but the images were clear.

Brianna accepted the food and closed the door.

I remained in the shadow of the fire exit, unable to move.

A moment later, my phone vibrated.

Preston.

I stared at his name before answering.

“Hi.”

“Stella, baby, I’m sorry.” His voice came through the phone, warm and apologetic. “The handover has turned into a disaster. I’m trapped at the office, and I don’t think I’ll be able to pick you up at ten.”

From behind the apartment door, I heard the faint echo of the same voice.

He was only a few yards away.

Lying to me from inside his mistress’s home.

“I know it’s your birthday,” he continued. “I promise I’ll make it up to you. Once this project is over, I’ll take you anywhere you want.”

Brianna laughed softly in the background.

Preston immediately covered the phone.

“What was that?” I asked.

“Someone from the finance department.” He answered without hesitation. “The office is chaos this morning.”

My hand moved instinctively to my stomach.

I was ten weeks pregnant.

Brianna was three months pregnant.

While I had spent years wondering why I could not give him the family he wanted, Preston had been building another one behind my back.

“Stella?” he asked. “You understand, don’t you?”

I looked at the closed door.

“I understand everything now.”

Before he could respond, I ended the call.

I walked down the emergency stairs without looking back.

By the time I reached my car, my tears had stopped.

I uploaded the photographs to the encrypted folder and removed the location-sharing app from my phone.

Then I drove home.

Preston believed I would be waiting when he finally decided to return.

Before he walked through that door again, I would be gone.