Not around me.
Not the wife on the floor.
Her.
“How long?” I asked.
My voice did not shake.
That seemed to bother him.
Chloe looked toward Harrison first.
Asking permission.
That was when I understood the betrayal had structure.
Not passion.
Structure.
Harrison gave one cold nod.
Chloe swallowed.
“Eight months.”
Eight months.
Eight months of charity dinners.
Board retreats.
Foundation galas.
Three anniversary posts.
Two vacations.
One fertility consultation where Harrison held my hand and said, “We’ll become parents when life stops attacking us.”
Eight months while Chloe borrowed my dresses, drank my wine, cried on my sofa about her “messy heart,” and asked if she could stay in our guest suite whenever life felt too heavy.