Through the window, I watched him. He felt the vibration, glanced at the screen, frowned, and immediately silenced the call before shoving the phone deep into his pocket.
Beside him, Emily shivered in the cold wind, shrinking into her coat.
Without missing a beat, Rhys unwound his scarf and gently draped it around her neck, adjusting it with sickening care.
My vision blurred with fresh tears.
That scarf.
Grey wool. Last month, he had begged me to knit it for him. He'd told me his colleagues were showing off their gifts, and he wanted to wear a symbol of his wife's love.
Now, that symbol was keeping another woman warm while I went to deliver his child alone.
It took me three days just to choose the color. Half a month to knit that intricate pattern. My fingers were raw, pricked a dozen times, but I hadn't minded.
It had all seemed worth it—imagining him holding it, shouting his excitement, vowing no one else would ever touch it.
But now, Rhys had tossed those vows aside. He was using my labor of love to impress Emily Fox.
How dare he.
Emily recoiled slightly, offering a polite, apologetic smile.
"I'm so sorry, Rhys. My skin is terribly sensitive. If it isn't pure wool from a designer brand, I break out in a rash. Especially with... synthetic blends like that."
Rhys froze, hand still outstretched. He didn't find her rejection rude. Instead, he apologized profusely.
"No, no, I wasn't thinking. A girl like you deserves designer brands, not... cheap, inferior goods."
My heart clenched. Inferior goods.
"I won't let this trash offend your eyes," he continued eagerly. "When your birthday comes, I'll get you something worthy."
With a smile, he tossed the gray scarf onto the ground without a second thought, like garbage.
As our car drove past, the tires rolled over it. The gray wool caught, twisted, ground into the dirty slush.
Just like my love—crushed completely clean.
Rhys sensed a gaze burning into him. He turned.
Through the tinted window, our eyes locked. I sat clutching my pregnant belly, my stare colder than the winter air.
Rhys stiffened. Guilt and shock flashed across his face.
But as my car drove further away, he blinked and shook his head.
"Must be an illusion," he muttered. "Why would my wife be in a luxury car like that?"
Still, unease lingered. A prick of conscience about leaving me home alone. He pulled out his phone, turned it back on, and dialed my number.