Chapter 1

I found out my husband had been cheating on me for 1,488 days on the night before my thirty-fifth birthday.

Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, rain blurred the city lights into streaks of gold and white. The dinner I had prepared for our fifth anniversary had already gone cold, and two untouched wineglasses still sat beside the candles.

At 9:10, Nathaniel finally called.

His voice sounded rough.

“Baby, I think I’m getting sick. My throat hurts, and I’ve had a headache all afternoon. I’m probably running a fever too.”

I looked at the empty chair across from me.

“So you’re not coming home?”

“I don’t want to risk giving it to you.” He coughed lightly. “I’ll stay near the office tonight. I’m sorry about our anniversary. I’ll make it up to you tomorrow.”

Tomorrow was my thirty-fifth birthday.

I almost told him then.

That I was ten weeks pregnant.

That after years of appointments, tests and disappointment, we were finally going to have the child we had wanted for so long.

Instead, I swallowed the surprise I had been saving all day.

“Get some rest,” I said. “I’ll send you some medicine and something warm to eat.”

“You’re too good to me.”

His voice softened.

“I love you, Isolde.”

“I love you too.”

The words left my mouth as naturally as they had every day of our five-year marriage.

After we hung up, I remained at the dining table for several seconds, staring at the anniversary dinner neither of us had touched.

Then I began clearing away the plates.

Nathaniel had rushed out that morning and forgotten his backup phone on the entryway table. He normally kept it in his briefcase in case his primary phone lost power during business trips.

I picked it up and entered the passcode.

Our wedding date.

The delivery app he always used was still signed in. I opened the pharmacy section and searched for the cold medicine he preferred, then added electrolyte drinks and throat lozenges to the cart.

I intended to have everything delivered to Reed Holdings.

Before I could proceed to checkout, I noticed the most recent delivery address.

The Hawthorne Residences.

Penthouse 2804.

I stopped.

It was not Nathaniel’s office.

It was not one of our properties.

The Hawthorne Residences was one of the most private luxury apartment buildings in the city. Its penthouses were hidden behind private elevators, guarded entrances and confidentiality agreements.

Nathaniel had never mentioned knowing anyone who lived there.

I touched the address.

A list of recent pharmacy deliveries appeared beneath it.

Prenatal vitamins.

Folic acid.

Iron supplements.

Pregnancy-safe nausea medication.

Prescription progesterone capsules marked for pregnancy support.

I read the list twice.

Pregnancy support?

For a moment, I thought I had opened the wrong account.

Then I saw the saved pharmacy note.

Five months pregnant. Please make sure every medication is pregnancy-safe. Leave the package quietly at the door.

My fingers tightened around the phone.

Five months pregnant.

I opened the order history.

For the past five months, Nathaniel’s account had paid for prenatal supplements, medication, ginger lozenges and pregnancy-safe meals delivered to Penthouse 2804.

The orders appeared almost every day.

Some were placed early in the morning.

Others arrived after midnight.

The delivery times matched Nathaniel’s emergency meetings, business dinners and overnight audits.

I kept scrolling.

Before the prenatal orders, there had been flowers.

Jewelry.

Private dinners.

Weekend hotel reservations.

The further back I went, the more carefully constructed his second life became.

Every gift corresponded with an excuse he had given me.

A diamond bracelet delivered on the same evening he claimed his flight had been canceled.

Two concert tickets purchased during a weekend he said he was entertaining overseas clients.

A hotel suite booked on the night I had waited alone at the hospital after a fertility procedure.

My hand began to tremble.

Still, I kept scrolling.

I needed to know where it had started.

At the bottom of the history, 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 beneath the reservation read:

For our first night together.

The date was exactly 1,488 days ago.

Just over four years.

Nathaniel had begun betraying me only months after our wedding.

I stared at the date until the numbers blurred.

Then memories began rearranging themselves.

Every late meeting.

Every unfamiliar scent on his shirts.

Every canceled dinner.

Every time he had turned his phone facedown.

Every excuse I had made for him.

He was under pressure.

The company needed him.

Marriage required trust.

For 1,488 days, I had protected a man who had been lying to my face.

A notification appeared at the top of the phone.

Your order has been accepted.

Delivery destination: The Hawthorne Residences, Penthouse 2804.

Someone had just placed an order through Nathaniel’s connected account on another device.

I opened it.

Prenatal vitamins.

Ginger lozenges.

A refill of pregnancy-safe nausea medication.

The order had been placed at 9:38 p.m.

Less than half an hour earlier, Nathaniel had told me he was sick and staying near the office because he did not want to infect me.

He had coughed into the phone.

He had apologized for missing our anniversary.

He had told me he loved me.

Now he was ordering medication for a woman who was five months pregnant.

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 ultrasound report hidden inside my handbag.

Ten weeks pregnant.

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

I had planned to place the ultrasound report beside his anniversary plate.

I had imagined his disbelief.

His laughter.

The way he would pull me into his arms and press his hand against my stomach, even though it was too early to feel anything.

Instead, I was sitting alone at our dining table while he cared for another pregnant woman.

For several seconds, I could not breathe.

Rain struck the windows.

The anniversary candles continued burning beside the cold dinner, slowly collapsing into pools of white wax.

Then I opened the camera on my own phone.

I photographed the address, the pharmacy note and every order I could find.

I recorded the entire delivery history, including the hotel reservation from 1,488 days ago.

Then I uploaded the evidence to an encrypted folder Nathaniel could not access.

Only after the files were secured did I close the delivery app.

I wiped my fingerprints from the screen and returned the backup phone to the exact position in which Nathaniel had left it.

The screen faced upward.

The charging cable rested beside it.

Nothing looked disturbed.

I returned to the dining table and removed the ultrasound report from my handbag.

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

That morning, it had looked like the beginning of everything.

Now it felt like evidence from a life that had already ended.

“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.