Chapter 2

A week later, an email landed in my inbox.

Sender: Sophia Dubois.

The name meant nothing. Until I clicked.

"Ms. Miller, or may I call you Emily? I believe we have something important to discuss. Perhaps coffee? Say, the Blue Bottle at Santana Row, tomorrow at two?"

Sophia. "Sweetheart S."

The audacity.

My fingers tightened on my mouse.

Part of me wanted to delete it, to pretend it never happened.

But the images from Mark's tablet were seared into my mind.

I needed to see her. To understand.

Santana Row. Chic, expensive. Her kind of place, I guessed.

She was already there when I arrived, perched on a velvet stool, a tiny espresso cup in her hand.

Younger than I expected. Twenties. Her designer bag sat on the counter like a statement.

She smiled when she saw me, a bright, confident smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

"Emily. So glad you could make it."

She gestured to the barista. "An oat milk latte for my guest. No sugar, right?"

How did she know?

"Mark talks about you," she said, as if reading my mind. "He still cares, in his own way."

The latte arrived. I didn't touch it.

"Why am I here, Sophia?"

She tilted her head, a cascade of blonde hair falling over one shoulder.

"To be direct? Mark isn't happy, Emily. He hasn't been for a long time."

Her voice was surprisingly gentle, almost pitying. It made my skin crawl.

"He's with me now. We're building a future."

She paused, then placed a perfectly manicured hand on her flat stomach.

"A family."

The air left my lungs. Pregnant.

"He feels trapped," Sophia continued, her gaze unwavering. "He said you wouldn't let go. That the accident... made things complicated."

Rage, cold and sharp, flooded me. He was painting me as the clinging, broken wife.

"He's a coward," I said, my voice low.

Sophia's smile faltered for a second.

"He's a visionary. And he deserves to be happy. We both do."

She leaned forward slightly. "Look, Emily. I'm not here to gloat. I just think... it's time for you to move on. For your own sake."

"And if I don't?"

Her eyes hardened. "Then things get messy. And Mark doesn't like messy."

She sipped her espresso. "Our ten-year anniversary is next Friday, isn't it? His and yours, I mean."

I stared at her.

"Let's make a little wager, shall we?" Sophia's voice was light, almost playful. "Who do you think he'll spend it with? You, reminiscing about old times? Or me, planning our trip to Paris?"

Her phone buzzed on the counter. She glanced at it, a small, triumphant smile playing on her lips.

She didn't need to show me. I already knew.

Mark was sending her a message. Confirming their plans.

My own phone remained silent in my purse.