The bitter truth was that I could only cling to these scraps of evidence—things he'd been careless enough to leave behind—just to prop up the crumbling illusion that he still loved me.
Christina tossed her coat on the floor by her feet. "Nice place, right? Decorated exactly the way I like it."
My eyes locked onto the necklace resting above her V-neckline. My lips trembled.
"That necklace..."
Christina leaned in, eyes bright. "Your boss is pretty generous, huh? He gave it to me for my birthday. I heard it's super hard to get."
When Piers gave me mine, he told me it was a limited edition. He said he'd only managed to snag one.
Now I stared at the identical necklace around her neck, and suddenly I couldn't tell which one of us was the afterthought.
I turned to leave, and my gaze caught something at the entryway.
A large note was stuck to the wall. My pupils contracted.
It was Christina's class schedule, with several key courses circled in red pen.
Next to it were her exam times, down to the exact hour and minute.
Piers's friends always teased him for being a "daddy husband"—the kind who managed every detail of his wife's life.
He kept a list of my food allergies in his notes app. My monthly checkup dates were posted on the fridge. He even organized the pill cases for my family members.
I'd always believed it was instinct born from love.
Turns out it was a hobby.
Being a caretaker at home wasn't enough for him. He had to go out and raise another one.
"Want some?"
Christina ripped open a bag of snacks. "I love this beef jerky! The dining hall at school is awful. Once Mr. Harding found out, he started having the housekeeper make batches of snacks every Sunday night and deliver them to me."
She took a bite. "I just wonder if his wife knows about it."
I stared at the jerky in her hand. My nails dug into my palms.
Of course she didn't know.
I'd even thought Piers was the one who liked them. Sometimes I'd help the housekeeper make them myself.
"Miss Winfield, did you know that Mr. Harding and his wife have been together for seven years?"
"Sure." Christina blinked, all wide-eyed innocence. "So what? It's not like I want to marry him."
"He gives me money and connections. I keep him happy. Everybody wins."
She leaned closer. "Think about it—his wife's at home turning into a frumpy housewife, dealing with groceries and bills all day. What kind of excitement does a man come home to? I'm different. I'm young and gorgeous. He can show me off."
Her eyes lit up. "A little while ago, he took me to this wine-tasting event. Very upscale."
"Know why he brought me instead of his wife?"
I looked at her. I didn't answer.
"Because I'm the one worth showing off." She flipped her hair. "You guys probably don't even know what Mr. Harding's phone wallpaper is, do you? It's me."
"His lock screen, though—that's his wife." She clicked her tongue. "Tsk."
"That's men for you. Not a decent one in the bunch. They want the trophy on the outside and the stability at home."
I lowered my eyes. A wave of bitter irony washed over me.
"All right, head on up."
Christina waved me off. "Leave the luggage—I'll handle it myself. Thanks, sweetie."
I turned and walked out.
But her words had already lodged in my skull like a splinter, throbbing with every thought.
Seven years of marriage, and I had never once checked Piers's phone.
His wallpaper was me. I'd always known that.
But it had never occurred to me that a woman could live the way Christina did—young and pretty, and that was enough to justify wedging herself into someone else's marriage without a shred of shame. She'd laid it all out like it was the most natural thing in the world.
I felt sorry for her. I felt sorry for myself.
Most of all, I felt sorry for the tiny, unformed life in my belly.
When I started the car, all I could think about was every good thing Piers had ever done for me.
