Everyone knew. Everyone except the pregnant wife waiting at home.
“Ma’am?” the hostess touched my elbow gently. “You look pale. Please, sit.”
I blinked, forcing air into my lungs. My hand moved over my belly, not in comfort, but in a vow. The shock was receding, receding like the tide before a tsunami, leaving behind something cold and hard. It felt like steel forming in my spine.
“Actually,” I said, my voice terrifyingly calm. “I think I’ll take that table after all.”
I followed the hostess to my table with a deliberate, gliding grace. I did not run. I did not cry. I moved like a queen entering her court, even if that court was currently witnessing her execution. I chose a seat that gave me a direct line of sight to Adrien and Sabrina, yet kept me partially obscured behind a decorative column adorned with cascading white orchids.
The irony was bitter on my tongue: I was now the one watching my husband in the shadows, the role usually reserved for the mistress.
“Can I start you with something to drink?” the waiter asked.
“Sparkling water with lemon, please,” I said. “And I’ll need a moment.”
As he walked away, I allowed myself to truly observe the autopsy of my marriage occurring twenty feet away. Adrien had removed his wedding ring. It sat on the tablecloth next to the bread basket, a discarded shackle. Sabrina’s black cocktail dress was stunning, likely costing more than my first car. Her platinum hair was swept up to reveal diamond earrings that caught the light—earrings I recognized from a credit card statement I had assumed was for a client gift.
My phone buzzed on the table. A text from Adrien.
Meeting running longer than expected. Order takeout for yourself. Love you.
I watched him type it. I saw his thumbs fly across the screen, saw him hit send, and then immediately place the phone face down to slide his hand back into hers. The audacity was so absolute it was almost impressive.
