The hives had finally faded from my skin, but the itch of suspicion remained. Three days after my hospital stay, I was still recovering at home, my body weak but my mind racing. Henry had been attentive since returning from wherever—whoever—had called him away, bringing me soup and medicine with a guilt-ridden smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"I need to grab some files from the office," he announced on the fourth morning, already dressed in his navy suit. "Will you be okay for a few hours?"
I nodded, watching him adjust his tie in the hallway mirror. "I'll probably just sleep."
He kissed my forehead, careful not to disturb the oxygen cannula I still used occasionally. "That's my girl. Rest up."
The moment his car pulled away, I dragged myself from bed. My legs trembled as I made my way to the garage. Henry had been acting strange since the hospital—too attentive, too eager to please. It felt like compensation for something.
His car sat in the dim light, the sleek black exterior still damp from morning dew. I hesitated at the driver's door, my hand hovering over the handle.
"This is crazy," I whispered to myself. "You're becoming paranoid."
But the memory of those text messages—"The dress fitting was perfect"—propelled me forward.
The door unlocked with a soft click. I slid into the driver's seat, the leather still warm from Henry's body. The interior smelled of his cologne and something else—a floral perfume that wasn't mine.
I started with the glove compartment, finding nothing but registration papers and insurance documents. The center console yielded only loose change and a half-empty pack of mints.
Then I noticed the passenger seat floor mat was slightly askew.
I reached down and lifted it, revealing a small white bottle partially hidden beneath. Prenatal vitamins.
My fingers trembled as I picked it up. The label was addressed to "F. Hunt."
"Frances," I breathed, the name like acid on my tongue.
Beneath the vitamins lay a small plastic bag containing tiny clothes tags—baby clothes. I pulled them out, reading the sizes: 0-3 months, newborn.
A receipt fluttered to the floor: "Little Bundles Boutique - $287.50." The date was just two weeks ago.
My heart hammered against my ribs as I continued searching, finding more receipts tucked into the side pocket of the door—crib sheets, a stroller, a car seat. All purchased within the last month.
Then I found them—medical appointment cards for Westlake Obstetrics & Gynecology. Three of them, each with Frances's name and Henry's cell number listed as the emergency contact.
The dates lined up perfectly. Regular appointments, every four weeks.
I sat back, the cards clutched in my hand, as the pieces clicked into place with sickening clarity.
"Elise?"
I nearly screamed. Sarah stood in the garage doorway, her expression shifting from concern to alarm.
"What are you doing in Henry's car?" she asked, hurrying toward me.
I couldn't answer. My phone buzzed in my pocket—a notification from Instagram. Frances had posted again.
I pulled out my phone with numb fingers. There she was, smiling radiantly in a sundress that highlighted her slender waist. Henry stood behind her, his hands resting possessively on her shoulders. The caption read: "Some bonds can never be broken. #TrueLove #MyForever"
They were at Lake Windermere—the same place Henry had promised to take me for our anniversary.
"Elise?" Sarah's voice sounded distant. "You're scaring me."
I scrolled through more photos. Henry and Frances at a wine bar. Henry and Frances at a candlelit dinner. Henry and Frances at the beach—her head resting on his chest as the sun set behind them.
Each photo was carefully staged, each caption deliberately crafted to wound me.
"With my favorite person in the world."
"Nobody understands me like you do."
"Some moments are worth remembering forever."
And always—always—the locations were tagged, the hashtags carefully chosen from ones I regularly followed.
She wanted me to see them. She was making sure I couldn't miss a single moment.
When Henry returned that afternoon, I was waiting in the living room, the prenatal vitamins and appointment cards arranged on the coffee table.
"What is this?" I asked quietly as he set down his briefcase.
His face transformed—the mask of concern dropping away to reveal something hard and ugly.
"You went through my car?" he demanded, his voice rising. "What the hell is wrong with you, Elise?"
"I could ask you the same thing," I said, surprised by the steadiness in my voice. "Are you and Frances having a baby?"
He laughed—a sharp, defensive sound that echoed in the room. "You're being ridiculous. Those aren't even mine."
"Then whose are they?"
"My sister's," he snapped. "She asked me to pick up some things for her."
"Your sister lives in Seattle," I said slowly. "And she doesn't have any children."
His eyes narrowed, and for a moment, I glimpsed something dangerous in them—something I'd never seen before.
"You need to stop this, Elise," he said, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper. "This controlling, spying behavior has to end."
