Her Secret Shame, His Public Affair

On my wedding night, my new husband, Jameson, was blackout drunk. My best friend of twenty years, Caren, texted me practical advice: give him honey water and let him sleep it off.

But just as he quieted down, he pulled me close, his breath hot on my neck. "I love you so, so much, Caren," he whispered. Then I saw it. A tattoo I'd never seen before, a single letter 'C' inked directly over his heart.

The next morning, my birthday, Caren showed up with a cake, her smile as sweet as poison. After one bite, my throat began to close. Peanuts. She knew I was deathly allergic.

As I gasped for air, Jameson's first instinct wasn't to help me, but to defend her. He stood between us, his face a mask of fury. "What is your problem with her?" he demanded, blind to the fact that his wife was suffocating in front of him.

I stumbled, trying to reach my EpiPen, but he grabbed my arm, yanking me back. "You are going to apologize to Caren right now!"

With the last of my strength, I slapped him across the face.

"I'm pregnant," I rasped. "And I can't breathe."

Chapter 1

My wedding night was supposed to be perfect, but Jameson was impossibly drunk. He could barely stand, slurring his words as our friends guided him into the hotel suite. The door clicked shut, leaving us in a silence that felt too loud.

I looked at him, slumped on the edge of our king-sized bed, and a wave of helplessness washed over me. This wasn't the man I'd just married. This was a stranger. My heart ached for him, for the perfect night that was slipping away.

My phone buzzed. It was a text from Caren, my best friend for twenty years. He probably just had too much, Lana. Give him some honey water and let him sleep it off. He'll be fine in the morning.

I felt a blush creep up my neck. Caren always knew what to do. Her message, so practical, also held a hint of the night's expectations, and I felt a shy hope that things might still turn out okay.

I did as she said. I ordered honey water from room service and gently coaxed Jameson to drink it. He was pliant, like a child, doing whatever I asked without a fight.

Slowly, the frantic energy left him, and he settled down, his breathing evening out as he lay back against the pillows. He was finally quiet.

I picked up my phone again, wanting to text Caren back, to thank her for being the calm in my storm, just like she always was.

Suddenly, strong arms wrapped around me from behind, pulling me against a warm chest. Jameson wasn't asleep. His breath was hot on my neck.

"I love you," he whispered, his voice thick and broken. It wasn't the loving whisper of a new husband. It sounded like a confession torn from his soul.

"I love you so, so much, Caren."

The name hung in the air, a poison dart. He hadn't said Alanna. He'd said my best friend's name.

His shirt had fallen open in his drunken state. There, on the left side of his chest, directly over his heart, was a tattoo I'd never seen before.

It was a single, elegant letter 'C'.

My mind went blank. The world tilted, sounds faded into a dull roar in my ears. The man holding me, the room, the white dress hanging on the door-it all felt like a movie I was watching from a great distance.

C. Caren. The 'C' was for Caren.

It all clicked into place. The reason he got so drunk he couldn't function. The reason he looked past me at the reception, his eyes searching for someone else. He wasn't celebrating our union. He was mourning it.

I stood there, frozen in his arms, for what felt like an eternity. I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe.

Slowly, the feeling came back to my limbs, a cold dread seeping into my bones.

My phone vibrated again on the nightstand.

I pulled away from him, my movements stiff and robotic. He didn't notice, already lost to a drunken sleep.

I stared at the glowing screen.

The message was from Caren.