My husband told me he was going to the christening of a client’s son. I followed him to a farm… and saw my cousin carrying the baby in her arms. Then the priest smiled and said, “Now, let the child’s father come forward.”
Claire told me he had to attend the christening of an important client’s baby.
So I followed him all the way to a grand estate outside Asheville… and nearly stopped breathing when I saw my cousin standing near the altar with an infant in her arms.
Then the priest smiled warmly and said, “May the child’s father please come forward.” And Ethan—my husband—walked toward the front in his pale peach dress shirt like he belonged there.
Ethan left the house carrying the scent of expensive perfume.
Not mine.
It was that heavy, sweet perfume that clings to someone’s skin long after the truth should have washed away.
He had dressed carefully that morning, wearing a new peach-colored button-up shirt that looked freshly pressed, like he was headed for family portraits or some polished celebration.
“I’m going to a client’s son’s baptism,” he said casually while adjusting his cufflinks.
He didn’t look me in the eye when he said it.
That alone made something twist inside my stomach.
I stood in the kitchen holding a cup of coffee that had already gone cold, watching him fix the expensive watch he only wore to weddings, business dinners, and moments when he wanted to look respectable.
“What kind of client invites you to a baptism on a Sunday?” I asked quietly. “And why are you dressed like you’re part of the family?”
Ethan sighed impatiently.
“Claire, please don’t start this today. I have to represent the firm.”
Represent.
The word sounded fake the moment it left his mouth.
Like putting silk curtains over a cracked wall.
He walked over, kissed my forehead too quickly, and grabbed his keys before I could question him again.
The second the front door shut behind him, something buzzed in our bedroom.
Not my phone.
His old phone.
The one he claimed had been broken for months.
It was hidden beneath a magazine on the nightstand.
The screen lit up again.
No contact name.
Only a number.
“My love, please don’t be late. The priest already asked about you. I’m so nervous. Your son won’t stop crying.”
For a moment, I couldn’t breathe.
My love.
Your son.
The words blurred together while my hands started shaking uncontrollably.
But I didn’t scream.
