Chapter 2

I walked into the foyer, my resolve still a raw wound, and saw a pair of gleaming, ruby-red high heels placed neatly beside Brennan' s expensive loafers. They weren't mine. They were Cheri' s. My stomach lurched.

Cheri herself emerged from the living room, a saccharine smile plastered on her face. Her eyes, however, held a glint of triumph as they met mine.

"Allison! You're home early!" she chirped, as if surprised. "Bird and Colton are just playing in his room. Colton was so excited to finally have a playdate here."

Colton. Cheri' s son. His laughter, bright and unrestrained, echoed from Bird' s room. It was another invasion, another piece of my life she' d seamlessly absorbed.

My gaze drifted to the coffee table. There, Brennan's favorite porcelain mug, the one he insisted no one else touch, sat half-empty. It was Cheri's lipstick mark on the rim. "Cheri," I said, my voice dangerously calm, "you' re using Brennan' s mug."

The air thickened, suddenly heavy. Her smile wavered, just a fraction.

She pretended surprise, her hand fluttering to her chest. "Oh dear! Was this Brennan's? I'm so sorry! Colton must have given it to me. He's always so thoughtful, bringing me drinks."

She continued, a subtle smirk playing on her lips, "But don't worry, Allison. Brennan and I have matching sets at the office. Sometimes it's hard to tell them apart."

A cold laugh escaped me. "Matching sets? How charming." I leaned in, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You know, Brennan has H. pylori. The doctor insisted on separate cutlery, separate mugs for him. Strict hygiene. Guess he forgot to mention that? Or maybe you just prefer sharing germs."

Cheri's face drained of color, her false pleasantries dissolving into a mask of pure mortification. She mumbled something about an urgent call and practically dragged Colton out, her ruby heels clicking frantically on the marble floor.

Victory tasted like ash. The disgust curdled in my stomach. She was sleeping here, cooking here, raising her child with mine. She was playing house in my house.

It was clear. She wasn't just having an affair with Brennan; she was building a new life with him, right under my nose. Or, more accurately, in my former home.

Bird came out of his room, his eyes brimming with tears. "Mom! Why were you so mean to Cheri? You made her cry! You always ruin everything!" He glared at me, his small fists clenched.

He sniffled, "Dad says you're always so... so difficult. He says you complain about everything and never appreciate him. He says you don't even like the food he buys you, and you always make him feel small."

Brennan had been complaining about me? To Cheri? To his son? The thought that he had harbored such resentment, silently eroding our marriage, turned my stomach inside out. The pain of betrayal intensified, a dull, throbbing ache.

Brennan returned an hour later, his face unreadable.

I watched him put his briefcase down. Then, I picked up his mug, still stained with Cheri' s lipstick, and held it out to him. "Here, Brennan. Your favorite mug. Want some tea?" My voice was flat, devoid of emotion.

He glanced at it, then at me. His eyes, usually so quick to hide, showed a flicker of something, perhaps guilt, perhaps annoyance. "No," he said, his voice clipped. He walked to the sink, pulled out a fresh mug, and filled it with water. He didn't even touch the one I offered.

That night, he turned his back to me in bed. He always did that now. No casual brush of hands, no lingering touch. Just a cold, impassive back.

I lay there, silent tears tracing paths down my temples into my hair. The salt stung my eyes, but the emptiness inside was far more painful.

I remembered a time when he would pull me close, kiss my forehead, whisper that I was the most beautiful woman in the world. He'd bring me coffee in bed, just the way I liked it. That Brennan felt like a character from a forgotten novel.

I sniffled, a small sound lost in the vast silence of the room. He didn' t stir. He didn' t care. Not anymore.

The man who once swore to love me forever was gone. Replaced by a stranger who lay beside me, oblivious to my silent agony. The realization was a cold, hard stone in my chest: he had stopped loving me long ago.