Chapter 2

I didn't ask Victor about the bracelet that night.

By the time we returned home, I had convinced myself that there had to be a reasonable explanation. Maybe he had given it to Mara temporarily because she had lost something. Maybe it was a company gift. Maybe I had misunderstood what I saw in the ballroom. There were a dozen explanations I could have chosen, and I clung to every one of them because the alternative was too painful to consider.

More than anything, I remembered the man Victor had been after we lost our son. He had been broken too, even though he tried to hide it for my sake. I had watched him struggle through grief while still making sure I had food on my plate and someone beside me when I woke from nightmares. I couldn't bring myself to believe that the same man would deliberately betray me.

So I said nothing.

Instead, I started watching.

Mara was everywhere.

She appeared at company dinners, investor meetings, charity events, and even some gatherings that had nothing to do with her actual responsibilities. Victor always had an explanation. She was helping coordinate the event. She had documents he needed. She was handling an important client. Since Victor's schedule was complicated, I accepted those explanations more often than I should have.

What bothered me was how much Mara seemed to know about him.

At first, it was little things.

One morning, Victor came downstairs late, already dressed for work. Mara had apparently sent breakfast to the office because she knew he wouldn't have time to eat at home. When Victor opened the box, he found his usual black coffee with exactly two packets of sugar.

I stared at it.

"You didn't tell her how you take your coffee, did you?"

Victor looked up from the box.

"Tell who?"

"Mara."

He shrugged. "She handles my schedule. She probably knows."

"She knows you take two sugars?"

"She's my secretary, Eleanor."

He said it so casually that I felt foolish for even asking.

I let it go.

A week later, I mentioned that Victor had been sleeping badly. Mara overheard me while we were at the office, and without missing a beat, she said, "He always does that when something reminds him of his father."

I looked at her.

"What?"

Mara smiled awkwardly. "I just meant when he's under pressure. He told me his father used to work late too."

Victor glanced at her.

"That's enough, Mara."

She immediately lowered her eyes.

"Sorry."

I didn't say anything, but I remembered that story. Victor had told me about his father only once, years ago, on a night when we had been drinking wine in our kitchen. It wasn't something he discussed casually, and I certainly didn't remember telling Mara about it.

Maybe Victor had told her.

Maybe he hadn't.

The questions began piling up faster than I could dismiss them.

She knew his favorite restaurant. She knew which brand of whiskey he preferred. She knew he hated having meetings scheduled before nine in the morning and that he always became quiet when someone mentioned his father's death.

She even knew the name of the stuffed rabbit I had bought for our son before he was born.

That was the one that made my stomach turn.

We were at the office for a charity planning meeting when Mara mentioned it without thinking.

"I remember Victor telling me about that," she said.

I stared at her.

"About what?"

"The rabbit."

Her face changed when she realized what she had said.

Victor's expression hardened.

"Mara."

She quickly looked down at the papers in front of her.

"I'm sorry."

I waited until we were alone before asking Victor about it.

"You told her about the rabbit?"

Victor removed his watch and placed it on the dresser.

"Why does it matter?"

"Because I didn't know you had told anyone."

He sighed.

"Eleanor, it came up in conversation."

"How?"

"I don't remember."

His answer should have been enough.

Instead, it made me feel strangely empty.

That rabbit had been something between us. A small, painful memory from the life we had lost together. I had never imagined discussing it with anyone outside our marriage, yet Mara spoke about it as though she had been there.

I wanted to ask how much Victor had told her.

I wanted to ask why she needed to know so much.

But every time I came close to confronting him, I remembered the hospital.

I remembered his face when the doctor told us our son was gone.

I remembered how fragile he had been afterward.

Victor had spent years rebuilding himself, and I couldn't bear the thought of becoming another burden he had to carry. If he was under pressure at work, the last thing I wanted was to become another problem waiting for him when he came home.

So I stayed quiet.

Then came the company dinner that changed everything.

Victor had invited several executives to a private dinner at a restaurant downtown. I joined him because he asked me to, although most of the evening was spent watching him talk business with people around the table.

Mara sat across from us.

She seemed perfectly comfortable.

At one point, Victor reached for his glass, and Mara immediately moved the water pitcher closer to him.

"You'll want water before you start drinking."

Victor glanced at her and smiled.

"Still looking after me?"

"Someone has to."

Several people laughed.

I didn't.

A few minutes later, Victor made a joke about an investor, and Mara laughed harder than anyone else at the table.

Then she leaned toward him.

"You're still impossible, Vic."

The conversation around the table continued, but I stopped hearing it.

Vic.

I hadn't heard that name in years.

Victor's mother used to call him that when we were dating. Eventually, after we got married, even she stopped using it. Victor had once told me he didn't like anyone calling him that because it made him feel like a child.

I turned toward him.

He didn't correct Mara.

He simply smiled.

Something cold settled in my chest.

After dinner, I waited until we were in the car before asking.

"Why does Mara call you Vic?"

Victor glanced at me.

"That's what she calls me."

"I know."

"Then what's the problem?"

"I haven't heard anyone call you that in years."

He laughed softly.

"You're seriously upset about a nickname?"

"I'm asking a question."

"She's young, Eleanor. She's inexperienced. She probably doesn't realize she's crossing a line."

I looked out the window.

"She seems to know a lot about you."

Victor was silent for a moment.

Then he sighed.

"She works with me every day. Of course she knows things about me."

"Things about your childhood?"

"Yes."

"Our son?"

His expression changed.

"Why are you bringing that up?"

"Because she knew about the rabbit."

Victor rubbed his forehead.

"Eleanor, you're becoming overly sensitive."

I turned toward him.

"Overly sensitive?"

"You've been through a lot. I understand that. But not everything is a threat."

His words hurt more than I expected.

I stared at him while he continued.

"Mara looks up to me. She's young, she's trying to prove herself, and she probably gets too comfortable sometimes. That's all this is."

"There's nothing between you?"

Victor looked directly at me.

"No."

The answer came quickly.

"There is absolutely nothing between us."

I wanted to believe him.

More importantly, I wanted to be the wife who trusted her husband instead of questioning every woman who stood too close to him.

"I'm sorry," I whispered.

Victor reached for my hand.

"I know you're still carrying what happened to us. But you can't let fear destroy what we have."

I nodded.

He kissed my knuckles, and for a moment, I almost felt ashamed of myself.

Maybe I had been imagining things.

Maybe grief had made me afraid of losing the one person who had stayed when everything else disappeared.

But something had changed that night.

For the first time, when I was hurting, Victor didn't instinctively protect me.

He protected Mara from my questions.

We arrived home shortly after eleven. Victor went upstairs to shower while I remained in the bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed and staring at the floor.

His phone was on the nightstand.

It buzzed.

I wasn't planning to look.

Then the screen lit up.

Mara Bennett

A preview appeared beneath her name.

I froze.

The message was only one sentence.

I miss the way you held me last night.

I stared at the screen until the words blurred.

Then the bathroom door opened behind me.

Victor walked out, completely unaware that I had seen the message.

And for the first time in seven years, I didn't know whether the man walking toward me was my husband—or a stranger wearing his face.