Chapter 3

Tristan went upstairs and took a shower before coming to bed.

I lay in bed with my back toward him, listening to the water run for nearly twenty minutes.

When he finally came out, he smelled like soap.

But underneath it, I could still detect the faint trace of Sloane's perfume.

“I'm sorry about tonight,” he said quietly. “I really wanted to be home for our anniversary.”

I turned my head and smiled.

“It's okay.”

He seemed relieved.

Within minutes, his breathing became slow and even.

I waited another hour before getting out of bed.

I didn't want to search his phone.

I wanted to know what had happened at that clinic.

The old phone Tristan had replaced six months ago was still in the bottom drawer of his desk.

I remembered seeing him handle it before he left for London.

Tonight, I finally understood why.

I plugged it in.

The password was still our wedding anniversary.

The screen opened.

There were almost no recent photos.

But the cloud messages hadn't been completely erased.

I searched Sloane's name.

The first message was from six months ago.

Then I found one from three weeks earlier.

Sloane: The doctor wants me back tomorrow.

Tristan: I'll take you.

My fingers stopped.

I kept scrolling.

Then I found the message that made my heart drop.

Sloane: I lost the baby.

There was a long gap.

Then Tristan replied:

I'm coming. Don't go through this alone.

The first time I miscarried, Tristan had held my hand and whispered almost the same words: You don't have to go through this alone.

By my third miscarriage, he had been too busy to come to the follow-up appointment.

For years, I had quietly wondered whether something was wrong with me.

After every loss came another round of questions, appointments, and careful instructions about what I should eat, take, avoid, or do differently next time.

By the third miscarriage, I had stopped asking Tristan if he thought my body was failing us.

I already knew how afraid I was of the answer.

I stared at the screen.

So she wasn’t pregnant now.

She had already lost the baby.

The clinic wasn't for a pregnancy appointment.

It was a follow-up after her miscarriage.

I closed my eyes.

For several seconds, I couldn't breathe.

Somewhere along the way, he had stopped being that man for me and become him for her.

I kept scrolling.

There were hundreds of messages.

Not explicit.

That almost made them worse.

Did you eat?

Text me when you get back.

I wish I could be there.

You don't have to be alone tonight.

Then I found one from Sloane.

I wish I'd met you before she did.

Tristan answered:

Sometimes I wonder what my life would have been like if I had.

I stared at that sentence for a long time.

Seven years of marriage.

Seven anniversaries.

Three lost babies.

And six months of a second life I had never known existed.

I photographed the messages and backed them up.

Then I changed the passwords to my email, medical account, and investment accounts.

I wasn't ready to confront him.

Not yet.

I needed to understand how much of my life he had already given away.

I returned the phone exactly where I'd found it.

When I climbed back into bed, Tristan stirred.

His arm reached for me instinctively.

“Are you awake?”

I closed my eyes.

“I'm tired.”

He moved closer.

For years, that warmth had meant home.

Tonight, his arms no longer felt safe.

I placed one hand over my stomach.

My baby was still there.

And suddenly, I knew one thing with absolute certainty.

Whatever Tristan had chosen for himself, I would not let him decide my child's future for me.