It was close to eight at night and I was still in my office.
Starving. Drained. Too tired to slide off my heels, which I had been wearing since six that morning. On my desk was a signed contract representing the largest deal I had closed all year, the kind that moved significant numbers across significant lines and would require a full quarter of work to fully execute. The kind that paid for the life my husband and his family had grown very comfortable calling ours.
Robert was supposed to be in Chicago at a business conference. I texted him: Take care. I miss you.
No reply. Not even a read receipt.
I leaned back in my chair and pressed my fingertips to my temples and thought about the drive home and whether there was anything in the refrigerator and whether I had the bandwidth to cook or whether I would end up ordering something delivered to the door of the oceanfront bungalow and eating it alone at the kitchen island, which was how most evenings had been going lately.
I opened Instagram for one quiet minute before leaving.
One minute was all it took.
The first thing on my screen was a post from my mother-in-law, Eleanor. A wedding photograph. White roses and gold lights and a tent set on grass facing the water. Standing under it, smiling with the open satisfaction of a man who believes he has won something, was my husband Robert.
Beside him was Tiffany. A junior employee at my company, twenty-six years old, in a white gown. One hand rested with deliberate visibility over her stomach. Robert’s hand was wrapped around hers. Eleanor stood on his other side with an expression I had seen her wear at galas and charity events, the expression of a woman presiding over something she considers her due.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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