Chapter 1

I found out my husband was cheating on me on the night I was supposed to tell him I was pregnant.

Eight weeks. That was what the ultrasound report said.

I had carried the little white envelope around all afternoon, touching it every few minutes just to make sure it was still there.

Our fifth anniversary. I had imagined Adrian opening it at dinner.

He would stare at the report. Then look at me.

Then, hopefully, laugh in disbelief before pulling me into his arms.

I had even practiced what I would say.

We're having a baby.

At six that evening, Adrian kissed my forehead.

“I'm sorry, baby. Something came up at the company.”

He looked genuinely guilty.

“The French restaurant can wait. I'll make it up to you.”

I smiled. “Okay. Don't work too late.” I believed him. That was the worst part.

At 10:07, I opened our location app.

I don't know why. Maybe because I was pregnant.

Maybe because, for the first time, I wanted to know where the man who was going to be my child's father actually was.

The blue dot wasn't at the company.

It was at the French restaurant.

The same restaurant he'd always called too expensive.

I stared at the screen. Then I grabbed my coat.

Five hundred meters later, I stood outside the restaurant.

Through the glass, I saw Adrian.

He was sitting across from Sienna, his secretary.

For a moment, I told myself it could still be explained.

Maybe it was only dinner.

Maybe I was wrong.

Then Sienna leaned closer.

Adrian didn't move away.

He reached up, touched her face gently, and kissed her.

My entire body went cold.

The man who had kissed my forehead that morning was kissing another woman less than five hundred meters away from me.

Around Sienna's neck was a diamond necklace.

The exact same one I had saved in my wishlist for months.

The one Adrian once looked at and said, “Maybe later.”

His later had arrived.

It just wasn't for me.

My hand slowly covered my stomach. I couldn't breathe.

I called him.

He answered immediately. “Hey, baby.” His voice was warm. Familiar.

The same voice that had told me he loved me that morning.

“I just finished a meeting,” he said. “It took longer than I expected. I’m exhausted. I might go back and rest early tonight.”

I looked through the glass at him.

He was sitting less than five hundred meters away.

“This place sounds pretty lively.” I asked.

There was the briefest pause.

Then he laughed. “Maybe some employees are still around. The office has been busy tonight.”

I almost laughed too.

Not because it was funny. Because I suddenly understood how easily five years could become a lie.

“Okay,” I whispered.

“Get some rest.”

I ended the call.

I didn't walk inside. I didn't scream. I didn't ask him who she was.

I simply took one picture through the glass.

Then I turned around and went home.

The ultrasound report was still in my coat pocket.

I took the ultrasound report out again, the same report I had held so carefully that morning.

I looked at the words: Eight weeks pregnant.

My eyes blurred.

I pressed the paper against my stomach.

“I'm sorry,” I whispered.

I wasn't sure whether I was apologizing to the baby—or to myself.

Then I opened my phone and searched for a divorce lawyer.

But I didn't call. Not yet.

Before I ended my marriage, I needed to know one thing.

How long had Adrian been lying to me?