Chapter 3 Elena
Idrove on autopilot, taking the route home I'd driven a thousand times before. Past the gas station where Matt always stopped for coffee on Sunday mornings. Past the Italian place where we'd celebrated our first anniversary. Past the dry cleaner that never got his uniform shirts quite right.
The flash drive felt heavy in my coat pocket.
Matt was waiting for me. Probably sitting on the couch with his boots off and his tie loosened, waiting for me the way he always did after a shift. I'd walk in, and he'd smile that tired smile, and he'd ask about my day, and I'd—
The light turned red at Harper and Fifth.
I stopped, stared at the intersection.
Angela lived three blocks east. Just three blocks and I could get answers before I had to look at Matt’s face and pretend I didn't know.
The light turned green, and I turned right instead of going straight.
Angela's place, a renovated brownstone apartment she and Bryan had bought three years ago, wasn't far.
I'd been there for the housewarming, had watched him spin her around the kitchen while she laughed, had thought they're going to be happy there. Bryan was good like that. He was steady. The kind of man who remembered anniversaries and fixed things before they broke and looked at his wife like she’d personally invented happiness and refused to patent it.
The Audi was in her usual spot, parked crooked like she'd been in a hurry. Or drunk. Probably both.
I pulled in beside it and killed the engine.
My hands were steady on the steering wheel. That scared me more than the shaking would have. I should be falling apart right now. I should be crying or screaming or doing something other than sitting here with this cold, clear certainty settling into my bones.
But something fundamental had gone quiet inside me, and the silence felt like resolve. I was someone else now, and this person got out of the car and walked to the entrance. Pressed the buzzer for 3B and waited.
No answer.
I pressed it again, holding it down this time, letting it blare through her apartment.
The intercom crackled. "Jesus Christ, what—"
"It's me," I said. "Let me up."
Silence for a heartbeat, then the lock clicked open.
I took the stairs two at a time, not giving myself any time to think. Thinking was dangerous. Thinking meant processing, and if I started processing, I'd fall apart right here in this stairwell that smelled like old carpet and someone's cooking.
Angela was waiting at her door when I reached the third floor. She'd thrown on a cardigan over her work clothes, barefoot, hair pulled into a messy bun. She looked tired, small. Nothing like the woman who'd wrapped her legs around my husband four nights ago.
"Hey," she said, forcing something that might have been a smile. "Everything okay? You sounded—"
"Is Bryan home?"
The question came out sharper than I'd intended. Angela blinked.
"What? No. He's in Denver for that conference. Gets back tomorrow. Why?"
"Can I come in?"
She hesitated, just for a second. Then stepped back and held the door open.
"Yeah. Of course."
I walked past her into the living room, the same room where we’d hosted book club last month.
I could still picture myself on that couch, wine in hand, laughing about the male lead’s ‘throbbing manhood.’ Angela had rolled her eyes, said she was done with purple prose.
I’d agreed, we all had. Back when everything still felt normal.
Now the throw blanket was bunched at one end of the couch, and a wine glass sat on the coffee table with a red lipstick stain on the rim. Angela’s red. The same shade that had probably been on Matt’s mouth four nights ago.
"Do you want something to drink?" Angela was hovering by the door, arms crossed. "Tea? I think I have—"
"How long?"
She paused. "What?"
I turned to face her. Looked at her properly for the first time since I'd walked in.
She'd lost weight. I hadn't noticed before, but now I could see it in her collarbones, sharper than they'd been a few months ago.
Her cardigan hung loose on her frame. Her lips—God, her lips—were chapped, the lipstick worn off at the center where she'd been biting them. Those lips that had been on his neck.
My stomach turned.
"How long have you been fucking my husband?"
The color drained from her face. "What? I… what are you talking about? I would never—"
"Don't."
The word came out flat. I watched her mouth open and close, watched her try to find the lie, only to realize there wasn't one that would work.
"I saw the videos," I said. "From the clinic. So don't stand there and lie to my face."
Her hand came up to her throat, that nervous gesture I'd seen a thousand times. Usually when a client was upset about a diagnosis, when she had to deliver bad news and didn't want to.
Now she was the bad news.
"Oh God," she whispered. "Oh God, I—"
She'd forgotten. I could see it in her face, the exact moment the realization hit. The cameras, the new security system I'd handled because she couldn't be bothered with the insurance compliance paperwork.
"How long?"
Angela's eyes filled with tears. Her hand was still at her throat, fingers pressing into the hollow there like she was trying to hold herself together.
"Just… not long. I didn’t mean to—"
"How many times?" My voice came out sharp. "Twice at the clinic that I know of."
She flinched like I’d slapped her. Nodded. "Once before, in… in my car. I was having a bad day, stopped for a drink, and I… I couldn’t drive back home like that, so Matt picked me up and we just… we just got to talking and…"
"And what? Gravity? You just fell on his dick?"
"No! God, no, it wasn't…" She was crying now, tears streaming down her face. "We've been texting. It just… things with Bryan have been so hard lately, and Matt was easy to talk to, and he understood, and—"
"Things just happened?" I finished for her. My hands were shaking now, so I shoved them in my pockets. "Is that what you're going to tell me? That it just happened?"
"I didn't mean—"
"Bullshit." The word exploded past my gritted teeth. "Things like this don't just happen, Angela. These are choices. You chose to text him, you chose to kiss him, you chose to…" I broke off as the image slammed into me: Angela arched over the exam table, Matt’s hands gripping her hips.
"I know!" She was sobbing now, mascara running down her cheeks. "I know, okay? I know it's fucked up, I know I'm…" She shook her head. "It’s just… I felt lonely, Matt felt lonely, and—"
"Matt feels lonely?" I was moving closer without realizing it. "Are you actually fucking kidding me? "
She wiped at her face with the sleeve of her cardigan, nodded slightly. "He said… he said you've been distant. That you're always at work, and when you're home you're still thinking about the clinic, and—"
"I've been working late because you keep dropping the fucking ball!
" My voice cracked. "So let me get this right…
While I was working late to cover for you, he was texting you?
While I was fixing the shit you kept dropping, you two were playing Sad and Lonely together?
While I was keeping the doors open, you were in the backseat of your car with my husband? That's the story?”
Angela's face crumpled. She sank down onto the couch, head in her hands.
"Things with Bryan have been really bad," she said quietly.
"He's been on me about the drinking. Says I need to see someone, that I'm not myself lately.
And he's right, I know he's right, but I didn't want to hear it from him.
Matt just… Matt got it. He listened without judging.
And I know that's not an excuse, I know it doesn't make it okay, but—"
"But nothing." My voice went flat, colder than I meant it to be. "This ain’t therapy, Angela. So don’t make this about your feelings, Bryan, or your fucking drinking." I stepped closer, jaw tight. “You don’t get to hide behind any of that.” Another beat. “You fucked my husband. That’s it. That’s the whole thing. ”
She looked up at me, mascara-streaked and broken.
"I didn't mean to hurt you," she whispered.
I stared at her, this woman I'd trusted and worked beside for years. This woman who'd promised me partnership and friendship and had given me neither.
"I'm so sorry." Angela was crying harder now, words tumbling out between sobs.
"I'm so sorry, I'm such a bitch, I know I am.
I don't deserve you, I never did. I'm a terrible person, I know that, but please…
" Her voice cracked. "Please don't tell Bryan.
Please. It would destroy him, and I can't… I can't lose him too. Please."
The 'please' that hung in the air had nothing to do with me, our friendship, or what she'd done to my marriage. She just didn't want to get caught. Didn't want to face the consequences.
Whatever compassion I’d had left for her just… shut off. Gone. Like a light blinking out.
"Don't worry," I said quietly. "I'm not going to tell Bryan."
Relief flooded her face, and her shoulders sagged. "Thank you. God, thank you. I promise I'll—"
"You are."
She blinked. "What?"
I reached into my coat pocket, pulled out the flash drive, and held it up so she could see it.
"I got the videos here. Both times at the clinic, timestamped." I watched her face go white. "I’ll give you until tomorrow night to tell Bryan."
"No." She was shaking her head, standing up from the couch. "No, I can't… he'll leave me, I can't—"
"You should have thought of that before you fucked my husband."
"Please, you don't understand—"
"Don’t tell him and this goes in his inbox." I closed my fist around the flash drive. "Your choice, Angela. You tell him, or I do. But either way, he's going to know exactly what kind of woman he married."
"You can't do this." Her voice was desperate now. "Please, I'm begging you—"
"I can. And I will." I turned toward the door. "Tomorrow night, Angela. Don't make me do it for you."
"Wait—"
But I was already walking out, down the stairs, into the cold night air that felt clean after the suffocating warmth of her apartment.