I stood up too fast, and a sharp pull ran across my lower back. I gripped the counter until it passed, then walked upstairs to our bathroom and locked the door.
The tile floor was cold even through my leggings. I sat down on it anyway and let myself cry.
Not the pretty kind. Not silent tears sliding down one cheek. I cried the humiliating, body-shaking kind, with snot and hiccuping breaths and one hand pressed to my mouth because I could not stand the idea of anyone hearing me even though I was alone.
I gave myself four minutes.
I know that because I set the timer on my phone.
At four minutes, I stood up, washed my face, and looked at myself in the mirror.
My eyes were red. My hair had come loose from its clip. My wedding ring flashed under the vanity light when I braced both hands on the sink. I looked tired. Pregnant. Hurt.
But under all that, something else came back.
I knew that look. I had seen it years ago reflected in conference room windows and dark computer screens at midnight, when a fraud case finally tipped from suspicion into proof.
I went to the bedroom, took the small black notebook from my bedside drawer, and wrote a single line.
Meridian Hotel. 32 charges. Tues/Thurs. Pattern confirmed.
Then I sat very still on the edge of the bed and thought about the last nine years.
About how Nathan had once told me I worked too hard, that I didn’t have to prove anything anymore, that we were a team. About how easy it was to confuse being cherished with being gradually reduced. About how I had let my certifications lapse, one renewal at a time, because there was always a vacation to plan or a fundraiser to host or a dinner table to style for people Nathan wanted to impress.
I didn’t call him.
I didn’t smash a glass or throw his suits into the driveway or text a photo of the statements to whatever woman was occupying my Tuesday and Thursday nights by proxy.
I called my sister.
Roz answered on the third ring. In the background, I heard a monitor beeping and somebody laughing too loudly, which meant she was probably near the nurses’ station at Stamford Hospital.
“Hey, Cece, can I call you back in—”
“He’s cheating on me.”
Silence.
Three seconds. For Roz, that was basically a religious experience.
Then she said, very calmly, “Tell me you haven’t confronted him.”
“I haven’t.”
“Good. Don’t. I’m getting off in twenty.”