Chapter 3

I turned back to the kitchen to clean up. Three minutes later, he slipped in and locked the door behind him.

The kitchen was small. With both of us inside, the distance between us was less than two feet.

He smelled of Hermès Terre—a luxury cologne I had smelled on him for three years. I had always assumed it was some cheap, ten-dollar knockoff he bought from the grocery store downstairs.

"Chloe—"

"Don't call me that."

"Listen to me. She and I... it was an arranged marriage. I don't love her at all. Just give me a little more time!"

"How old is your daughter?"

He fell silent.

"I asked you, how old is your daughter?"

"...One and a half."

"How long have we been together?"

Again, silence.

"Three years," I answered for him, my voice shaking like a leaf. "Three years and two months. Over a thousand days. Austin, your daughter is a year and a half old. That means when you met me, your wife was already pregnant. When you were pursuing me, your wife was going to prenatal checkups. When you told me you were single, your daughter was already born."

"Has anything you've ever said been true?"

He was silent for a very long time.

So long that I thought he might at least apologize.

But when he finally spoke, his tone changed.

It wasn't guilt. It wasn't shame. It was cold. A bone-chilling cold I had never heard from him before.

"Don't make a scene."

"Don't make a scene."

I had heard those words for three years. Every time he broke a promise, lied, or got caught in a discrepancy, it was always those words.

"Don't make a scene. Don't ask. Don't worry about it."

I had been trained like a pet, shutting my mouth the moment I heard those words, retreating back into my cage to lick my wounds in secret.

The last time he said it was when I found a text on his phone at 2:00 AM saying, "Goodnight, honey."

He claimed it was a client, a wealthy woman he had to keep happy for business. I believed him.

But this time was different.

"She has a weak heart; she can’t handle stress," he whispered rapidly, as if managing a difficult business crisis. "She has congenital heart disease. If she gets too emotional, she could collapse. If you cause a scene and something happens to her, we’re both ruined."

I touched my belly. The baby kicked, as if saying: "Mom, don't be afraid."

"I’m leaving."

"Chloe—"

"Move."

He blocked the doorway, his face twisting into a chokehold of emotions.

He glanced at my belly. "Chloe, this baby... is it really mine?"

I froze.

It felt like a bucket of ice water had been poured over my head, freezing me from my scalp to my toes.

"What did you just say?"

"You’ve been with me for three years, but how do I know you weren't seeing anyone else?" His voice was incredibly low, but every word felt like a poisoned needle. "Didn't you tell me you had a guy friend you grew up with? Last time you said you were working overtime, he posted an Instagram story showing he was right near your office. You think I didn't see that?"

My mouth opened, but no sound came out.