Chapter 2

A year earlier, Taryn Caldwell had entered my marriage in a way that seemed almost harmless: inside a lunch container I packed before sunrise.

Grant's team was competing for the company's largest account of the year. He had been staying at the office until midnight, sleeping badly, and complaining about his stomach.

On the first night his new project team worked late, I woke at five thirty and made two lunches.

One was for Grant. The second was for the new employee he kept mentioning.

"Taryn is sharp," he had told me. "She sees things before everyone else does."

There was energy in his voice when he spoke about her. I mistook it for professional excitement.

I packed roasted chicken, rice, and the lemon dressing Grant liked in separate containers so nothing would get soggy. I added antacids to his bag and drove both lunches to his office.

He was in a meeting. The receptionist promised to put them in the refrigerator.

That evening, I waited for a message telling me he had eaten.

At ten, I finally asked.

"Sorry," he replied. "Taryn ordered barbecue for everyone. Forgot about the lunches."

Two days later, the containers came home empty and clean.

I smiled until Grant admitted the cleaning staff had thrown the food away.

"I was busy," he said. "It wasn't a big deal."

I had stood in our kitchen before dawn, trying to make his difficult week a little easier.

Taryn had clicked a button on a delivery app.

Yet that night, Grant told me she was thoughtful because she had remembered brisket was his favorite.

"She pays attention," he said.

The words should not have wounded me.

They did.

"I pay attention too."

He looked confused. "I didn't say you didn't."

That became the pattern.

He never said Taryn understood him better than I did. He simply praised every way she understood him while treating everything I knew as part of my job.

She brought him a hot latte when his stomach hurt, and he told the story twice at dinner.

I kept his medication in my purse for three years, and he complained that I nagged him.

She stayed late to revise a pitch, and he called her committed.

I waited awake until he came home, and he called me anxious.

The first time I heard the words "work wife," we were at his company's annual retreat.

I had come for the final dinner. Grant sat beside Taryn, their chairs angled toward each other as they checked something on his phone.

Derek Sloan raised his glass.

"Taryn isn't the project manager anymore. She's Grant's work wife."

The table erupted in laughter.

Taryn tapped her wineglass against Grant's.

"Mr. Ellison, is your real wife going to be jealous?"

Every face turned toward me.

I waited for my husband to say the joke was inappropriate.

Grant laughed.

"Laurel isn't that petty."

The laughter continued.

I smiled because twelve people were watching to see if I would prove him wrong.

On the drive home, he told me I had been unusually quiet.

"I didn't like that joke," I said.

"It was harmless."

"It didn't feel harmless to me."

He sighed as if I had created a problem from nothing.

At home, I reached for his coat. His phone lit up in his hand.

"Work husband, text me when you get home safe."

My fingers froze against his collar.

He turned the screen away.

"It is just something people on the team say."

"She said it when no one else was there to laugh."

"Laurel, don't start."

I let go of his coat.

That was the first time another woman called my husband hers.

It was also the first time he made me apologize for being hurt by it.