CHAPTER 5
Elena
My work was almost finished for the day.
All that was left was reviewing a few reports, but my whole body felt drained.
It wasn’t just the workload, at seven months pregnant, even breathing felt like effort.
And the constant, lingering heaviness of everything with Adrian made it twice as exhausting.
I let out a long sigh and pushed myself up from my chair. My water bottle was empty, so I walked to the dispenser, refilled it, and returned to my desk.
Once I sat back down, I opened my browser.
Just one search.
Only one.
But then the articles appeared:
27 Critical Questions to Ask Your Husband After He Cheated on You
“Did My Husband Love the Woman He Cheated With?”—9 Signs He Did
10 Things You Must Do to Reconcile with Your Husband After Cheating
11 Things You Should Never Do After Being Cheated On
I stared at the screen, reading every headline too carefully. I was so absorbed in those words that I didn’t notice someone behind me. Until a low voice murmured, almost right next to my ear—”...’11 things you should never do after—’”
I jerked upright and immediately slammed all the tabs shut.
“What are you doing?” I snapped, turning to glare at him.
He straightened from where he’d been leaning slightly over my shoulder, lifting his hands in surrender. “Sorry,” he said with a guilty little smile. “I called your name, like, twice. You were really focused on the screen.”
Heat crawled up my neck. “What do you need?” I asked sharply.
“I sent you the report,” he said, switching quickly into work mode. “The total in Accounts Payable isn’t tying to the subledger. I checked it twice but... something’s still off.”
I raised a brow. “Maybe you skipped something. You do that a lot. Clumsy.”
He scoffed. “Come on, no. I checked it several times. It’s real. I’m not bothering you just to—” He waved vaguely, meaning not just to comment on whatever you were reading.
I sighed. “Fine. I’ll take a look.”
“Thanks, boss. I’ll go back to my seat now so you can continue with the eleven things you should never do...” he teased.
“Oh, shut up.” I rolled my eyes, smiling.
He caught it instantly, an amused curve forming on his lips. “That’s better,” he said lightly. “You look much nicer when you smile a little. You’ve been... kind of tense these past few days. Hard to look at.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Seriously?”
He laughed and stepped back. “Alright, alright. I’ll get out of your way.”
— ? —
Adrian
I waited for Elena in the lobby of her office, standing off to the side where I could see the elevators clearly. She had agreed to let me pick her up today, and I planned to take her out to dinner before heading home. Nothing extravagant. Just something that might feel a little closer to normal.
The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime.
I spotted her instantly, walking out beside someone I recognized.
Her junior. We’d met once at our wedding, and Elena had mentioned him a few times over the years, just in passing.
He said something that made her shake her head with a faint exhale, but then she smiled. And for a moment... she looked lighter.
I watched her until she noticed me standing there. Whatever expression she had a second ago vanished. Her posture straightened, her guard slipping back into place the instant our eyes met. She walked toward me, and the guy she’d been speaking with gave her a polite nod before parting ways.
Elena didn’t say much as we made our way to the parking lot.
I opened the passenger door for her and helped her in.
Her belly had grown so much these past months that even the smallest movement seemed to require effort.
I placed a steady hand on her back, supporting her until she settled into the seat.
“Got you,” I murmured, but she didn’t respond.
I closed the door gently and circled to the driver’s side.
Inside the car, I tried breaking the silence.
“How was work today?”
She didn’t answer. Her elbow rested against the window, her chin propped on her hand as she stared outside, choosing the view of passing buildings over my face. I swallowed whatever comment I had next and focused on driving.
When I pulled up in front of an Italian restaurant, she frowned and finally turned to look at me.
“What are we doing here?” she asked, weary and suspicious.
“I wanted to take you out to dinner,” I said calmly. “I thought we could eat your favorite.”
Her lips twitched into something between disbelief and annoyance. “Right. Like that makes any difference.”
I didn’t react to the sarcasm. Not because I didn’t have anything to say—God knows I did—but because the wrong words could push her even farther away and she was far enough already.
I simply stepped out of the car and walked around to open her door.
When we were already inside the restaurant, I helped her settle into her seat before taking my own across from her. She still avoided my eyes, choosing instead to study the interior, the soft lighting, the framed photographs, anything that wasn’t me.
The waiter approached. “What would you like, ma’am?”
Elena didn’t hesitate. “Mafalda bolognese, please.”
“And make sure it’s pregnancy-safe,” I added before she could say anything else.
She shot me a sharp look but didn’t argue.
“For you, sir?”
“Pappardelle with veal ragù,” I said.
“And to drink?”
“Can I get a mocktail?” I asked. “Something citrusy or refreshing, but non-alcoholic.”
“Of course, sir,” the waiter said.
I turned to her, “Elena?”
“Acqua Panna,” she replied. Short and cold.
When the waiter left, we were alone again, or as alone as two people can be while sitting together and feeling miles apart.
She still wouldn’t look at me, her gaze fixed on anything but my face. I watched her quietly, wishing I knew how to bridge a distance I had caused with my own hands. Wishing I knew how to reach her again.
Flashback
(Boston project site. 09:00 a.m.)
The meeting wasn’t mine to run.
I sat at the head of the long folding table because that was where the board representative belonged—not because I needed to assert it.
My hard hat rested beside my tablet, its screen dark, untouched.
Temporary walls boxed us in. Fine dust clung to the air no matter how often the place was cleaned.
Outside, Boston’s early-morning cold pressed against concrete and steel, generators humming steadily like the site’s pulse.
The site director led the briefing—schedule drift, labor compression, cost exposure if winter delays stretched another two weeks. I listened and intervened only when necessary.
“What’s the float after the resequencing?”
“Show me the actual mitigation, not the optimistic version.”
At 09:30 a.m. sharp, my phone vibrated once against my thigh.
I didn’t move. Didn’t reach for it. Didn’t glance down.
The site director kept talking. Something about extended shifts and temporary crew overlap. I nodded once, fingers loosely interlaced on the table, face unreadable.
This was a skill you learned the hard way—how to keep your body still when something inside you shifted. How to stay present when the stakes changed silently.
“Any objections from the board?” he asked.
“No,” I said evenly. “Proceed. I want daily updates until the schedule stabilizes. No surprises.”
“Understood.”
The meeting wrapped quickly after that. Chairs scraped back. Boots hit concrete. Everyone dispersed, already moving toward the next problem waiting outside these walls.
I stayed seated.
When the door closed, the silence pressed heavier than the noise ever had. Only then did I take my phone out.
Clinic email.
Boston Medical Center.
For a moment, I didn’t open it. Because this wasn’t just about me anymore.
It was about my wife—her body, her safety, and the child she was carrying, completely unaware of the risk I had been reckless enough to introduce.
I told the board I needed to extend the project for another month. They thought it was strategy, deadlines, numbers. I let them believe that. But the truth was simpler. I needed time. I wasn’t going back to Michigan until I knew I wasn’t bringing consequences home with me.
I opened the email.
All results: Negative.
Relief came first—fast, sharp, almost violent in how suddenly my lungs seemed to remember how to breathe.
Then came guilt.
The clinic returned to me without warning. The other side of the city—a place I should never have had a reason to be in. The sterile smell of disinfectant. Plastic chairs bolted to the floor. The quiet weight of being the only man in the waiting area.
Women sat on either side of me. Some dressed carefully. Some looked exhausted. Some looked like they had done this before and hated that fact more than anything.
Different lives. Same consequences.
I remembered the looks. Not open judgment—just quick glances that lingered half a second too long.
A man in his thirties. Alone. Healthy on paper. Reckless in reality.
I locked the phone and set it face down on my tablet.
Outside, the site kept moving. Concrete curing. Steel rising. Deadlines advancing without concern for my personal reckoning. I stood, gathered my things, and walked back into the noise like nothing had happened.
But something had.
Boston stayed cold. The project stayed demanding. And I stayed exactly where I needed to be—long enough to remember who I never wanted to be again.