“Emma.”
“No. Say it properly.”
He looked at me for a long time.
“I was wrong five years ago.”
The words landed harder than I expected.
Not because they healed anything.
Because they arrived years late, carrying the ghosts of everything they could not save.
“I didn’t have an affair,” I said.
“I know.”
My breath caught.
“You know?”
He reached into his jacket and removed a folded piece of paper.
It was worn at the edges, like it had been handled too many times.
“I found this three months after the divorce.”
I did not take it.
“What is it?”
“A copy of one of the messages.”
I stared at him.
He unfolded it.
My stomach twisted as I recognized the words.
He can’t know yet. Not until the test results are confirmed.
I remembered that message.
I remembered the doctor’s name attached to it.
Dr. Samuel Reed.
My fertility specialist.
The “he” had been Blake.
Not because I was hiding an affair.
Because I had been planning to surprise him.
After two miscarriages Blake never talked about because grief made him helpless, I had started seeing Dr. Reed privately. I wanted certainty before I told my husband there was still hope.
Blake had found the messages before I could explain.
“You thought Samuel was a lover,” I said.
“Yes.”
“And after three months, you found proof he wasn’t?”
Blake’s throat moved.
“I found out he was a doctor.”
The elevator passed the twentieth floor.
“You found out three months after the divorce,” I said slowly, “and you never came to me?”
“I did.”
“No, Blake. You didn’t.”
“I went to your apartment.”
“I moved.”
“I called your old number.”
“I changed it.”
“I hired someone to find you.”
My blood chilled.
“What?”
He looked ashamed, but he did not look away.
“I hired a private investigator. He told me you had left the state. He said you didn’t want to be found.”
The elevator reached the lobby.
The doors opened.
