Chapter 1

My husband FaceTimed me every night for three years—turns out he was calling from her bed.

The first year Ethan transfers to the New York office, he FaceTimes me every night until midnight.

The second year, it becomes once a week.

The third year, FaceTime stops altogether—just texts.

I understand. He's busy.

Until one day, he sends me a message:

"Mom wants you to come to Connecticut. She says there's something to discuss."

I take time off work and fly out.

His mother is sitting in the living room. Next to her stands a woman I've never seen before.

"Quinn, dear, I'm not asking you two to divorce. I just want you to be a little more open-minded—give Vivian a place in this family."

"She's been by Ethan's side at the New York office this whole time. You've seen it yourself—his numbers have been so much better these past two years."

I look at the woman.

She keeps her head down and says softly:

"I'm already pregnant. The baby needs a father."

His mother picks up right where she left off:

“You still haven't gotten pregnant after all these years. Is there something wrong with you? I've already found a fertility specialist. You're starting treatment.”

I sit on the couch without saying a word.

Then I stand up, grab my bag, and walk toward the door.

I barely step outside when I see Ethan's car parked at the curb.

He gets out and sees me. He freezes.

The passenger door opens too.

A little boy, maybe two years old, reaches his arms out toward Ethan and cries:

"Daddy! Up!"

…

Two years old.

Nine months of pregnancy, plus two years.

That lines up exactly with his first year in New York.

The man who FaceTimed me every night until midnight—who once ordered me soup delivery at 2 a.m. because I mentioned a sore throat—got another woman pregnant during that very same time.

Ethan clearly didn't expect me to walk out right then.

His hand hangs frozen in midair. He hasn't even closed his car door.

The little boy in the passenger seat squirms restlessly, babbling Daddy, Daddy in that high-pitched toddler voice.

Vivian rushes out from the house and grabs my arm.

"Please don't blame Ethan. It's all my fault."

"I'd had too much to drink that night, and I threw myself at him. You're the only one in his heart."

I shake her hand off and lock my eyes on Ethan.

Ethan finally snaps out of it. He strides over and positions himself in front of Vivian.

"Quinn, let me explain."

I stare at that familiar face and feel my stomach lurch.

"Explain what?"

“Explain how you spent your days in her bed, and then at night, you'd FaceTime me and call me babe?”

Ethan's face goes white as a sheet.

He lowers his voice, a thread of desperation creeping in.

"Quinn, not here. My mom is still watching from inside the house."

I laugh.

So in his mind, me calling out his lies is making a scene.

His mother comes outside now too, holding a half-peeled orange.

"Quinn, dear—men, you know how it is. Business dinners, social obligations. These things happen."

"Besides, Vivian's been doing her part—gave us a boy on the first try, and she's pregnant again."

"You can't conceive. You can't expect the Carter family line to just die out, can you?"

I turn to face her.

"I can't conceive?"

"Ethan, did you not tell her? That you wrecked your health binge-drinking for business deals, and I destroyed my hormones staying up night after night nursing you back to health?"

Ethan looks away.

He can't meet my eyes.

Vivian's eyes redden on cue. She shrinks behind Ethan's back.

"I know you must feel wronged."

"I don't need a title. I just want to stay by Ethan's side."

"The baby can call you Mommy. I'll be the nanny—I'll serve you both."

How noble.

How selfless.

Ethan hears this and the guilt in his eyes instantly transforms into tenderness—for her.

He wraps his arm around Vivian's shoulder. When he turns to face me, his tone has hardened.

"Quinn, Vivian has already bent over backwards. What more do you want?"

"These past two years, if she hadn't been at the New York office helping me build connections, I never would have made it to where I am."

"You stayed here the whole time. You have no idea how hard things have been for me."

I have no idea how hard things have been for him.

All I know is that the startup money for his transfer came from selling my grandmother's house.

All I know is that I reread his once-a-week texts over and over, like a lifeline.

I take a deep breath and pull a black voice recorder from my bag.

He'd had it custom-made for me during his first year in New York.

Inside is his voice: "Quinn, give me three years. I promise I'll bring you to New York in style."

I press play, right there in front of him.

A man's tender promise echoes down the empty street, grotesquely absurd.

Ethan's breath catches. He lunges to grab it.

I let go.

The recorder hits the pavement.

I lift my foot and bring my heel down hard.

The crack of shattering plastic is sharp and satisfying.

"Ethan. We're done."

I turn and walk away.

Behind me, Ethan shouts my name—but his footsteps are cut short by Vivian's gasp.

"Ethan, my stomach—it hurts so bad…"

I don't look back. I flag down a cab and slam the door shut.