Chapter 3 of After I Got Pregnant With My Husband’s Brother’s Baby

Silas picked me up on Thursday night in a car I'd never seen before. Not one of the family's black sedans with tinted windows and drivers who reported back to the Barnes patriarch. Just a dark blue sedan. Normal. Anonymous.

He opened the passenger door himself.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"Somewhere Colin would never take you," he said.

We drove to Brooklyn. The restaurant was small, tucked between a laundromat and a bookshop. No valet. No reservations list. Just red checkered tablecloths and the smell of garlic and tomatoes and bread baking somewhere in the back.

Silas held the door for me. Inside, an older woman with flour on her apron smiled at him like she knew him. "Your usual table?"

"Please, Rosa."

She led us to a corner booth. The vinyl seat squeaked when I slid in. There were actual candles on the table — the cheap kind in glass jars, not the architectural installations Colin's event planner arranged for our dinner parties.

I looked around. Families. Couples. A group of college kids laughing too loud over wine. Real people. Real noise. Real life.

I'd forgotten what it felt like.

Silas set something on the table between us. Wildflowers. Not roses. Not orchids. Just a handful of yellow and white flowers tied with kitchen twine, still damp like he'd picked them himself.

"They're imperfect," he said quietly. "I thought you might like that."

I picked them up. One of the stems was bent. The petals were uneven. They were the most beautiful thing anyone had given me in five years.

"I love them," I said.

His eyes went soft. "Good."

Rosa brought wine without asking — red, in glasses that didn't match. Silas poured for both of us. I took a sip. It was sharp and warm and nothing like the curated bottles Colin kept in the penthouse wine fridge.

"Tell me something," Silas said.

I looked at him over the rim of my glass. "Like what?"

"What music do you actually like? Not what you played at Colin's functions. What you listened to before."

I blinked. Colin had never asked me that. Not once.

"Old rock," I said slowly. "The kind my dad hated. Loud guitars. Bad lyrics. Songs that made me want to drive too fast."

Silas smiled. "What else?"

"I—" I stopped. It felt strange, being asked. Being seen. "I used to paint. In college. Terrible abstract stuff. I gave it up when—"

"When you married Colin," he finished quietly.

"Yeah."

He leaned forward. "What would you do if you could design a life from nothing? No family expectations. No alliances. Just you."

I stared at him. The question was so big it made my chest hurt.

"I'd live somewhere with light," I said finally. "Big windows. I'd paint again. I'd cook my grandmother's recipes. I'd have a dog." My voice caught on the last word.

Silas reached across the table and took my hand. His thumb brushed across my knuckles. "You'll have all of it."

I believed him.

Rosa brought pasta — huge bowls of it, sauce dripping down the sides, cheese grated fresh over the top. We ate with our fingers when the garlic bread was too good to wait for. I laughed when Silas got sauce on his shirt. He didn't care. He just smiled at me like watching me laugh was worth every expensive dry cleaning bill in the world.

"I've waited eight years to take you to dinner," he said quietly.

I set down my fork. "Silas—"

"I know it's complicated. I know what I'm asking you to walk away from. But Sofia—" He stopped. Swallowed. "You were never his. Not really. You were just... waiting."

"For you?" I whispered.

"For yourself," he said. "I'm just lucky enough to be here when you found her again."

I kissed him right there in the middle of Rosa's restaurant, and I didn't care who saw.

When we finally pulled apart, he was smiling. Really smiling. The kind of smile that made him look younger, lighter, like he'd been holding his breath for eight years and finally let it out.

"Take me home," I said.

He did. Not to the penthouse. To his place — a brownstone in Park Slope with actual books on the shelves and dishes in the sink and proof that a human being lived there.

We didn't leave his bed until morning.

I got back to the penthouse at noon on Friday. Colin's car was in the garage. He was home.

I walked into the kitchen and found my credit cards on the counter. All of them. Cut in half.

Colin stood by the window with his phone. He didn't look at me.

"You missed three social commitments this week," he said. "My assistant has rescheduled them. You'll attend."

I picked up one of the destroyed cards. The Platinum Amex I'd had since we got married. Sliced clean through.

"You cancelled my cards," I said.

"You've been spending irresponsibly. I've instructed the household staff to ensure you follow the meal plans. No more takeout. No more—"

"Fire them," I interrupted.

He finally looked at me. "What?"

"Fire the household staff. All of them. I'm hiring my own."

His jaw tightened. "Sofia, you're not thinking clearly—"

I pulled out my phone and opened my banking app. The Gomez family accounts. My name. My money. My father had set them up when I turned eighteen. I'd never touched them. Never needed to.

I held up the screen. "I don't need your cards, Colin. I never did."

Something flickered across his face. Not quite fear. But close.

"And I won't be attending your functions," I continued. "Not anymore. Tell your assistant to stop calling me."

"You're my wife—"

"On paper," I said quietly. "That's all I've ever been to you. A signature. An alliance. A well-behaved accessory."

I walked past him toward the bedroom. He caught my arm. His grip was firm but not painful. Controlled. Everything about Colin was always controlled.

"What do you want from me?" he asked.

I looked at his hand on my arm. Then at his face. Those cold grey eyes.

"Nothing," I said. "I want absolutely nothing from you anymore."

I pulled free and kept walking.

Behind me, I heard him make a call. His voice was low and tight. "I need you to look into my wife's accounts. Find out—"

I closed the bedroom door.