Chapter 2

Antony's phone buzzed against the couch cushions again, several times in a row.

The spoon in my hand trembled, just slightly.

He noticed me looking, walked over, and picked up the phone in the most casual way.

He glanced at it, then turned to me smiling, his eyes overflowing with surprise and doting affection.

"So you caught me."

"I was going to surprise you the day we signed for our license."

He gave the phone a little wave, a note of caught-out chagrin in his voice. "Let's celebrate right here that day, when we sign. How's that sound?"

Nausea churned up through my chest, but I forced a smile onto my face anyway.

"Sure. I can't wait."

I didn't ask him why this so-called "surprise" had been booked three days earlier, on the very day Gay Fox turned another year older.

The next morning, when I woke, a lavish breakfast was already laid out on the table.

A sandwich, fried eggs, warm milk.

And a bowl of red-date millet porridge, specially cooked for Gay Fox and her "stomachache."

Antony was in the kitchen with an apron on, moving around, busy.

He carried the porridge over to Gay Fox and told her, "Drink it while it's hot. It's good for your stomach."

Then he came to my side and straightened the collar of my pajamas.

"Baby, there's an extremely complicated neurosurgery at the hospital today. The director asked for me by name to be lead surgeon. I probably won't make it home tonight. I'll be on night duty at the hospital."

The moment he drew close, the nerves he'd strained through days of high-intensity work went loose.

That special calming scent I wore slipped in on his breath and settled deep in his lungs.

"Sam, be good and wait for me at home."

He lowered his head and kissed my forehead, his nose lingering a moment longer in my hair, drawing in a deep breath as if pulling some kind of energy from it.

I felt it clearly. The fingertips that had been trembling from exhaustion steadied against my forehead.

I nodded, rose onto my toes on my own, and fixed his tie for him.

"Take care of yourself. Don't push too hard."

I saw him to the door and watched as he and Gay Fox, who claimed she was off to "interview for a new job," stepped one after the other into the elevator.

The moment their car pulled out of the complex, I took out the spare key to the master bedroom.

This door, which Antony had bolted from the inside for three whole years because of his so-called "sleep disorder," opened.

I pushed it open, walked in, and crossed step by step to the bed.

I lifted the bottom-right corner of the mattress.

There, folded neatly, were several pieces of Gay Fox's intimate clothing.

Beneath them was pressed a pink notebook.

I opened it.

Inside, in two different sets of handwriting, were the dates and details of every one of their trysts.

The most recent page, in a delicate hand, was Gay Fox's.

"Sam bought him new sleep aromatherapy again today. It's honestly laughable."

"She'll never know that the real 'medicine' in this master bedroom is me."

"Being held in his arms in the master bedroom, right under her nose, is the most stress-relieving special remedy in the world."

I slammed the diary shut, my nails whitening from the force.

Suddenly I remembered how, back in college, Gay Fox had gripped my hand and said, half envious, half jealous:

"Sam, you're so lucky. You never fight for anything, never grab for anything, and yet you have it all. Not like me. I work myself to death and still can't reach it."

So from that very moment, she'd wanted to take everything of mine.

Just as I was about to throw the whole thing on the floor, I caught sight of a folded sheet of paper pressed under the nightstand.

I pulled it out and unfolded it.

It was a special registration slip for early-pregnancy screening at the city's top-tier hospital.

In the box for the patient's name it read: Gay Fox.

And at the very bottom, in the ordering physician's signature line, three characters swept out in a bold, flourishing scrawl I knew better than anything.