"Terminal B, LAX," I told the driver, rolling the orange pill bottle between my palms.
"Flight leaves soon?" he asked, glancing in the rearview mirror.
"He is picking someone up," I said. "He forgot his medication."
At four in the morning, the Los Angeles streets were completely empty. My phone screen glowed on the seat next to me. The GPS locator showed Adrian's Bentley had parked at the Beverly Hilton at exactly three o'clock. Sophia's hotel. I hadn't driven there to scream or demand answers. I had gone to the twenty-four-hour pharmacy on Sunset. He hated letting his assistant handle his prescriptions, and his stress levels had been peaking all week.
"Drop me at the arrivals curb," I said, handing over a twenty-dollar bill.
Two hours later, the damp concrete of the airport awning soaked through the thin soles of my flats. I stood ten meters away from the sliding glass doors, shivering in the morning chill.
The doors parted. Adrian walked out.
He didn't look tired. He took off his heavy black Tom Ford coat and draped it over the shoulders of the woman stepping out beside him.
Sophia Vance.
She looked exactly the same as she did in the society magazines. She tilted her head up, her eyes locking onto his face like a long-lost lover finally finding home.
"Thank you," Sophia murmured, pulling the dark wool lapels closer to her neck. "I missed this weather."
"You will get used to it again," Adrian said. "The car is pulling up now."
"Did you wait long?"
"Not at all."
I took a step forward. The plastic bottle felt heavy in my coat pocket.
Sophia's gaze drifted past Adrian's shoulder. Her eyes swept over the luggage carts, the tired travelers, and then stopped on me. She paused for half a second.
"Honey," Sophia asked, her voice light and musical. "Who is that woman? She has been staring at us."
Adrian did not turn his head. He didn't even shift his stance.
"No one important," he said.
"Are you sure?" Sophia asked. "She looks like she knows you."
"I said she is nobody," Adrian replied. "Get in the car."
"You are so tense today," she teased, touching his arm.
"I will relax once we get to the hotel."
No one important.
The words hung in the damp air. Not my wife. Not a friend. Not even an employee. No one. I didn't even earn a single line in his dictionary.
I stopped walking. My hand stayed in my pocket, my fingers tightening around the ribbed cap of the pill bottle.
A black SUV glided to the curb. Adrian guided Sophia toward the open door, his hand resting lightly on the small of her back. The door shut. The engine purred. The vehicle pulled away, leaving me standing alone under the gray awning.
Twenty-two hours later, the kitchen clock read three in the morning.
I arranged the final piece of roasted duck on the fine bone china. The dining table was full. Eight of his favorite dishes sat untouched.
The front door unlocked. Footsteps echoed in the foyer.
Adrian walked into the kitchen. The heavy scent of gardenia and vanilla trailed behind him. Sophia's perfume.
He stopped at the edge of the marble island. He glanced at the elaborate spread on the table.
"I made dinner," I said, wiping my hands on a kitchen towel. "Duck. Your favorite."
"Cold," he stated, his tone flat. "Throw it out."
"I kept it under the foil," I said. "It is still warm."
"I ate at the hotel."
"With Sophia."
"Yes. With Sophia."
"You spent the entire day with her," I said.
"She needed help settling in."
"And I need my husband."
"You need to stop clinging," he said. "It is exhausting."
"I went to the airport this morning to bring you your medication," I said, stepping closer. "You didn't take it today."
"Stop tracking my location."
"I wasn't tracking you to spy. You get migraines when your blood pressure spikes."
"Throw the food out, Eloise." He walked past me, heading straight for the hallway.
"Adrian, please," I said to his retreating back. "Can we just sit down for five minutes?"
"We have nothing to discuss."
The heavy oak door of the study clicked shut.
I stood in the center of the kitchen. The silence pressed against my ears. I picked up the serving platter. The roasted duck slid into the trash bin with a heavy, wet thud. I scraped the vegetables next, then the rice.
I carried the empty china to the sink. The warm water ran over my cold hands.
Through the quiet house, a low voice drifted from the hallway. The study door hadn't latched completely.
"Sophia, give me three days," Adrian said.
I turned off the faucet. The sudden quiet amplified his words.
"The divorce papers will be ready by Friday," he continued, his tone smooth, reassuring. "She won't make a scene. She never does."
My fingers went numb. The soapy porcelain plate slipped from my grip.
It hit the floor. The ceramic shattered into eight jagged pieces across the white tile.
The study door opened a crack.
"Can you not?" Adrian snapped, his voice sharp with irritation.
I squatted down, reaching for the broken edges.
"Sorry," I said, keeping my head lowered. "I will be quiet."
A sharp edge sliced across my index finger. A bright drop of blood welled up and fell, staining the pristine white tile red. Three years of marriage sounded exactly like a plate shattering on the floor.
