His face darkened. «She’s a colleague, Grace. A professional contact. This is exactly what I’m talking about. You’re insecure and paranoid. You don’t understand how the professional world works. This is why I can’t bring you to events. You’re too small-minded.»
Small-minded. After everything I’d sacrificed, I was small-minded for noticing my husband’s obsession with another woman.
Our eighth wedding anniversary fell on a Tuesday in October. I’d been planning for weeks, saving every spare dollar from my tips. I wanted one perfect evening, one night where we could remember who we used to be before medical school and luxury apartments and Veronica Ashford.
I left my cashier shift early, losing half a day’s pay so I could prepare. I bought ingredients for Brandon’s favourite meal, chicken parmesan, the same dish I used to make in our tiny apartment when we were happy. I found candles at the dollar store and set them on our dining table. I wore the navy dress from his graduation, the nicest thing I owned, and I’d spent an hour on my hair and makeup. The table looked beautiful, simple but beautiful. I’d even bought a small cake from the bakery, chocolate—his favourite.
I kept checking my phone. Brandon’s shift at the hospital ended at six. It was six-thirty, then seven, then seven-thirty.
At eight o’clock, I texted him: «Are you coming home soon? I made dinner.»
At eight-thirty, he replied: «Stuck at hospital. Emergency consultation.»
My heart sank, but I understood. He was a surgeon. Emergencies happened. I covered the food with foil and kept the candles lit.
At nine-forty-five, the apartment door opened. Brandon walked in, but he wasn’t wearing his scrubs or his white coat. He was wearing one of his expensive suits and he smelled like cologne and something else—perfume that wasn’t mine.
«Hey,» he said, barely glancing at me as he walked past the dining table toward the bedroom.
«Brandon,» I said softly. «I made dinner. It’s our anniversary.»
He stopped walking and turned around like he’d forgotten I was there. His eyes moved over the table, the candles now burned halfway down, the covered dishes, the cake with ‘Happy Anniversary’ written in blue icing.
«Grace, I told you I was stuck at the hospital.»
«You’re wearing a suit,» I said. «Not scrubs.»
His jaw tightened. «I had to change for a meeting afterward, a professional obligation.»