Chapter 3

The storm hit hard that night, thunder rattling the windows. Lily woke up wheezing, her small chest struggling for air. Asthma attack, a severe one.

I fumbled for her inhaler, my hands shaking. It wasn't enough.

"Ethan," I called, my voice tight with panic. "Lily can't breathe. I need to take her to the ER."

His voice was slurred, annoyed. "Sarah, stop being dramatic. She probably just wants attention. You're always making things up."

In the background, I heard Chloe's laugh, then her son, Leo, chattering.

"And another thing," Ethan continued, his tone hardening. "You owe Chloe an apology for that lunchbox stunt. Call her tomorrow."

Then he hung up.

I stared at the phone, disbelief warring with a cold, hard rage.

I bundled Lily up and drove through the storm to the emergency room alone, my heart pounding with fear for my daughter and a sickening clarity about my husband.

A week later, it was Lily's birthday. I'd ordered a custom-made dollhouse months ago, incredibly detailed, incredibly expensive – a secret splurge from my own funds, not the "modest" joint account.

I went to the high-end toy store to pick it up.

And there they were. Ethan, Chloe, and Leo.

Leo spotted the dollhouse as the manager brought it out.

"I want that one!" Leo shrieked, pointing.

Chloe smiled indulgently. "Oh, Ethan, isn't it lovely?"

Ethan turned to me. "Sarah, let Leo have it. You can get Lily something else. Don't be selfish, it's just a toy."

"This is Lily's birthday present," I said, my voice flat. "It's a special order."

"So? Leo wants it now," Ethan insisted, his patience thinning. "He's had a tough time."

The store manager stepped forward. "Excuse me, sir, but this dollhouse was custom-ordered and paid for by Mrs. Miller months ago. It's specifically for her daughter."

Ethan looked furious, Chloe embarrassed. I signed for the dollhouse and left them standing there.

That night, unable to sleep, I scrolled through Chloe's older Instagram posts, the ones Jessica hadn't found yet. A sick feeling grew in my stomach.

A "tech conference in Aspen" two years ago, where Ethan claimed to be networking at a local seminar, showed Chloe skiing, a man's arm with Ethan's distinctive watch around her waist in one selfie.

A "surprise company retreat with fireworks" last summer, when my mother had been ill and I'd needed him, featured Chloe and Ethan, champagne glasses raised, against a backdrop of explosions in the sky, clearly a romantic getaway.

The lies. Years of them. All the "late nights," the "urgent work trips."

It wasn't just an affair. It was a whole other life he was living, funded by me, built on my deliberate blindness.

My naivety, my desire to protect his ego, had made me a fool.