Chapter 2
When the hospital discharged me forty-eight hours later, Ethan didn't come to pick me up.
He sent a rideshare car instead.
His text arrived while the nurse was helping me into a wheelchair: Mia had a mild fever spike this morning. I can't leave her side. The driver has your name. Come straight in through the back door so you don't track outside germs into the main hall.
The cab dropped me off in front of the house I had co-owned for five years.
Clutching my surgical drain under my loose coat, every step sent a jolt of fire through my flank. I entered through the kitchen. The scent of lavender and expensive rose perfume hung heavy in the air -- Rachel's signature scent.
In the hallway, two large designer suitcases sat next to the coat rack.
I walked toward the ground-floor master suite. The door was cracked open. On the king-sized bed, the linen duvet cover I had chosen was gone, replaced by emerald silk sheets.
A pair of women's silk slippers sat on my side of the rug, next to a silver vanity tray loaded with Rachel's cosmetics.
A pair of hands reached around me and lifted the overnight bag from my grip.
"You're back," Ethan said. He didn't lean in to kiss me. He didn't look down at the drain pinned to my sweater. "I moved your personal things into the upstairs guest room this morning."
I turned to look at him. "You moved my things out of my own bedroom while I was having my stitches checked?"
"I told you on the phone, Rachel needs the adjoining bath because of the zero-threshold shower for Mia's sterile sponge baths," he said without blinking. "You need rest anyway. The guest room has great natural light."
"And the stairs?" I asked, my voice dangerously steady. "The surgeon explicitly warned that stair climbing could tear the internal fascia."
"Take them slowly, Claire. Hold the railing. Millions of people recover with stairs," he dismissed casually.
Before I could answer, Rachel walked out of the kitchen carrying a bowl of freshly cut fruit. She was wearing one of Ethan's oversized linen shirts, her hair pinned up loosely with a silver clip.
"Claire, thank you so much for what you did for Mia," Rachel said with a soft, practiced smile. "Don't worry about dinner tonight. I know you're exhausted, so Ethan and I will take care of Mia's medications. Just relax upstairs."
She spoke as if she were the lady of the manor graciously accommodating a weary guest.
I said nothing. I took my bag from Ethan's hand, walked up the stairs one painful step at a time, and pushed open the guest room door.
My clothes had been shoved into three cardboard boxes on the floor.
I sat down on the narrow guest bed, my side burning, and opened my laptop. An email notification popped up from our shared credit card.
There was a pending charge from a boutique department store downtown for high-end silk bedding, followed by charges for fine dining and an upscale hotel suite booked two nights before my surgery.
The hotel suite was reserved under Ethan's name, listed for two guests.
I took out my phone and took high-resolution photos of every cardboard box, the date-stamped receipt notifications, and the emerald sheets downstairs.
Then my phone vibrated with a private message from Mia: Claire, can you come down to the living room when Dad goes out? Please. There's something I have to tell you.