My husband told me he had to attend a client’s baby baptism. I followed him all the way to an estate in Asheville… and there, I saw my cousin cradling the infant in her arms.

My husband told me he had to attend a client’s baby baptism. I followed him all the way to an estate in Asheville… and there, I saw my cousin cradling the infant in her arms. Then the priest smiled warmly and announced, “Now, we invite the child’s father to step forward.” And Ethan—my husband—walked toward the altar in his peach-colored shirt.

Ethan left the house wrapped in the scent of costly perfume.

Not his cologne.

A thick, sugary woman’s fragrance that clung to fabric long after the truth had been scrubbed away.

He wore a freshly pressed peach dress shirt I had never seen before, the kind of thing men wear when they want to look perfect for photographs.

“I’m heading to a client’s son’s baptism,” he said casually, avoiding my eyes.

The answer came too quickly.

I was standing by the kitchen counter, clutching a half-cold mug of coffee, watching him adjust the expensive watch he only wore for weddings, high-level meetings… and carefully rehearsed lies.

“What kind of client hosts a baptism on a Sunday and expects you there like family?” I asked.

His jaw flexed.

“Claire, don’t start this. I’m representing the company.”

Representing.

The word felt empty.

Like placing expensive china over a rotting table.

He stepped close enough to kiss my forehead, then disappeared before I could fully inhale the falsehood he’d left behind.

The second the front door shut, something buzzed from our bedroom.

Not my phone.

His old phone.

The same one he’d insisted had been broken for months.

It sat hidden beneath a magazine on the nightstand.