Chapter 3

Olivia came back late, smelling of wine and Liam's cologne. The scent clung to her clothes, her hair. It made my stomach turn.

She tried to kiss me, her lips still curved in a smile from whatever amusement she'd found with him. I turned my head slightly, so her lips brushed my cheek.

"Tired," I mumbled, pulling away.

She frowned. "You're always tired lately, Ethan."

There was an edge to her voice, annoyance. As if my lack of enthusiasm was an inconvenience to her.

The next morning, I confronted her, not with accusations, but with what I'd seen.

"I saw you, Olivia," I said, my voice calm, too calm. "Yesterday. In the park. With Liam."

I'd found his name easily. A new intern at her firm. Young, ambitious, just like she was. She'd posted a team photo on her social media a week ago. "Welcoming our bright new intern, Liam Vance!" His smug face from the park matched the photo.

She froze, her coffee cup halfway to her lips. For a second, genuine panic flashed in her eyes. Then, it was gone, replaced by a carefully constructed look of confusion.

"Liam? Oh, from work! Yes, we were discussing a project. He needed some mentoring."

Her explanation was weak, flimsy. Discussing a project didn't involve passionate kisses. Mentoring didn't usually happen with his hand on her thigh, which I'd also seen before the kiss.

"In the park? For hours?" I pressed, keeping my tone even.

"It was a nice day," she said, a little too brightly. "We just lost track of time. You're being silly, Ethan."

She tried to laugh it off, to make me feel like I was the one overreacting, imagining things. But I saw the lie in her eyes, the way she avoided my gaze.

My distrust deepened. She was a good liar. Practiced.

That afternoon, while she was in the shower, I did something I'd never done before. I went through her purse. My hands felt clammy.

Tucked into a side pocket, I found a small, discreet package. Birth control pills. Not the brand she used to use when we were actively trying *not* to conceive years ago. A new prescription, filled just last week.

We weren't using any protection. We hadn't for years, not since we started trying for a family, a family that never came. The misdiagnosed illness in my "future" nightmare had made that dream impossible then.

But now, in this past, we were supposedly still open to it. Or I was. Clearly, she had other plans. Plans that involved Liam, and not getting pregnant with his child, or mine.

The pills were a cold, hard confirmation of her intentions. My resolve to leave, to disappear, solidified into granite.

I started my preparations in secret. Small things at first. Opening a new bank account with a small, untraceable deposit. Researching remote coastal towns in Maine, a place Olivia would never think to look for me.

Aunt Carol had been surprised to hear from me after so many years of silence, but she listened patiently. When I told her a carefully edited version of my situation – a deeply unhappy marriage, a need to escape – she didn't ask too many questions.

"Ethan, darling," she'd said, her voice crisp and business-like even over the phone from London. "If you need help, you have it. Just tell me what you require."

Her pragmatism was a lifeline.

One evening, Olivia was agitated. She'd had a bad day at work, a presentation had gone poorly. She was pacing the living room, muttering to herself.

I tried to ask her what was wrong.

"Just leave me alone, Ethan!" she snapped, her voice sharp.

Suddenly, she picked up a glass vase from the coffee table and hurled it against the wall. It shattered, pieces flying everywhere. My heart jumped.

This wasn't new. She had a temper. In the early years, before the careful construction of her public image became paramount, there had been moments like this. A slammed door that cracked the frame. A plate thrown during an argument that chipped the counter.

I'd always dismissed them as stress, as her passionate nature. Now, seeing it through the lens of her betrayal, it felt different. More menacing.

I flinched as a shard of glass landed near my foot. "Olivia, calm down."

I moved to help clean up the mess, to try and de-escalate. She was breathing heavily, her eyes wild.

"Don't touch me!" she yelled when I reached for her arm gently.

She glared at me, her face contorted with a rage that seemed out of proportion to a bad presentation. Or maybe it wasn't about the presentation at all. Maybe it was about the stress of her double life, the guilt, the frustration. And I was the easiest target.

I backed away slowly, my hands raised. The loving wife was gone. In her place was a volatile stranger. And I was trapped with her, for now.