Chapter 3

I didn’t reply to Sloane. I only saved the ultrasound image.

At one in the morning, the building intercom buzzed. Nora checked the security monitor.

“It’s Adrian. Want me to have security turn him away?”

“Let him up.”

Ten minutes later, Adrian entered the apartment. He was still wearing his black tuxedo from the premiere, though he had pulled his bow tie loose. He smelled of champagne and Sloane’s cloying perfume.

He surveyed the living room, his gaze settling on the empty luggage rack.

“Are you finished? Let’s go home.”

I pushed my phone across the table. Sloane’s ultrasound and her message about me dragging things out filled the screen.

Adrian barely glanced at it. “She’s emotional. You don’t have to take everything she says seriously.”

“Is the baby yours?”

He rubbed a hand over his forehead. “Yes.”

One word ended every argument we’d had over the past eight years about where the line was.

“How long have you known?”

“Two weeks.” He pulled out a chair and sat down. “I was going to tell you after the premiere. Sloane was afraid of what the press would write if they found out, so I had to make sure they saw her as someone who belonged there.”

“You stole my brooch, gave her my seat, and let everyone treat her like your wife.”

“For one night.” His voice rose before he checked himself. “Lena, hundreds of people’s jobs depend on this movie. Why does everything have to become a personal attack?”

I waited for the familiar pressure to close around my chest.

It came. My fingers went cold, and my heartbeat pounded against my ribs. I planted both feet on the floor and slowly counted through five breaths, the way my therapist had taught me.

Adrian reached for me. “See? You need me. Stop doing this to yourself.”

I placed my hands in my lap and didn’t touch him.

“Return the brooch by noon tomorrow. Have your publicist remove the word partner and state publicly that I never approved tonight’s arrangement.”

His hand stopped between us.

“What about Sloane?”

“That’s your problem.”

“She’s carrying my child.”

“Then be responsible for your child. That doesn’t require giving her your wife’s name.”

Adrian stood and paced across the small living room.

“If I issue a correction now, the press will tear her apart. She’s twenty-five. She can’t handle that. You have your work, Nora, and me. Why are you determined to punish a pregnant woman?”

He spoke as though I had organized the premiere and stolen the brooch from my own safe.

“Those are my conditions for coming home.”

He stared at me, his mouth tightening with the impatience I knew so well.

“You won’t last a few days. The last time you moved into a hotel, you called me thirteen times on the second night.”

He picked up his coat. At the door, he looked back.

“I’ll be home Sunday night. We’ll talk when you’ve calmed down.”

After the door closed, Nora came out of the bedroom. She didn’t ask whether I planned to go back. She simply set a glass of water beside me.

At 11:57 the next morning, Adrian sent a message.

Sloane is keeping the brooch for now. The statement stays as it is. Stop using this move-out stunt to threaten me.

I read it twice, then opened the email my attorney had sent three months earlier.

The drafted divorce petition was still attached. The signature line remained blank.

This time, I pressed Print.