Chapter 2

Seat 34B was narrower than my hips, and every vibration from the lavatory wall traveled straight into my aching back.

Maxwell did not come to check on me.

Halfway through the flight, he sent one message.

Arabella finally stopped shaking. Julian says Uncle Max saved the trip. Knew you’d understand.

Uncle Max. The hero.

Two weeks ago, Maxwell had complained that I never needed him.

I had apologized. I had wondered whether running my company, planning the trip and managing my pregnancy had made him feel unimportant.

Now I understood.

Maxwell did not want to be loved.

He wanted to be needed.

I downloaded the original ticket, the downgrade receipt and the modification history. Then I saved them in a password-protected folder.

All three bore the same date.

Fourteen days ago.

When we landed, Arabella stepped away from Maxwell to speak with the resort driver.

Her tears vanished.

She confirmed the luggage count, corrected the driver’s route and installed Julian’s car seat without assistance.

Then Maxwell approached.

Her shoulders folded instantly.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m just overwhelmed.”

He took the luggage from her hands. “That’s why I’m here.”

Arabella did not need rescuing.

She simply understood how desperately Maxwell needed to rescue someone.

At Azure Haven Resort, the manager welcomed us beneath the marble portico.

“Mr. and Mrs. Vance, your oceanfront anniversary suite is ready.”

Arabella tightened her grip on Maxwell’s arm.

He cleared his throat. “There’s been a change. Arabella and Julian will take the suite. Estelle can use Room 104.”

The manager hesitated. “The garden annex beside the laundry building?”

“You gave her our suite?” I asked.

“Julian needs space,” Maxwell said. “You need somewhere quiet.”

“I’m six months pregnant.”

“And perfectly capable of staying in a normal room.”

Arabella’s eyes filled with tears.

“This is all my fault. Maxwell, I told you Estelle wouldn’t want us here.”

He immediately wrapped an arm around her.

“You and Julian have suffered enough.”

Then he looked at me.

“Must you make people feel guilty for needing help?”

The manager placed a tablet on the counter.

“There is also the matter of the anniversary arrangements.”

The screen displayed the dinner, spa appointment and sunset photography package I had booked months ago.

Every reservation had been changed.

Primary dinner guest: Arabella Bellamy.

Family photography: Maxwell Vance, Arabella Bellamy and Julian Bellamy.

Room 104: Estelle Vance. No assistance required.

Modification date: fourteen days ago.

Nine days earlier, Maxwell had encouraged me to upgrade the suite.

“You deserve something beautiful,” he had said as I entered my company card details.

He had already given it to her.

I photographed every entry on the tablet.

“What are you doing?” Maxwell demanded.

“Keeping the reservation information.”

“You’re embarrassing yourself over a room.”

“No, Maxwell. I’m documenting what happened.”

His expression changed.

Only for a second—but I saw it.

Fear.

I handed the tablet back to the manager, took the key card for Room 104 and walked away from the three of them.

Room 104 overlooked the industrial laundry yard. The generators hummed behind the wall, and the air smelled of detergent and hot metal.

I locked the door.

Only then did I let my hands shake.

For five years, I had protected Maxwell’s pride. When his business failed, I told our friends he had chosen to step away. When I paid for our home, I called every purchase ours. When he accused me of never needing him, I apologized for being too capable.

I had spent years making sure my husband never felt small.

He repaid me by finding a woman willing to pretend he was enormous.

I opened the folder on my phone.

The bracelet.

Arabella’s message.

My downgraded ticket.

The hotel records.

I attached everything to an email and opened a contact I had not called since my company’s last contract dispute.

Marcus Hale — Attorney.

It was nearly midnight at home, but he answered on the third ring.

“Estelle?”

Across the resort, light poured from the oceanfront suite I had paid for. Three silhouettes moved behind the curtains.

From a distance, they looked like a family.

I removed my wedding ring and placed it beside the economy boarding pass.

“Marcus, I’m sending you evidence. Preserve all of it.”

A pause.

“What happened?”

I pressed send.

“I want a divorce.”