And then the photo dropped in. Blurry. Low light. But unmistakable. Her on his desk. Hair messy. Bra pulled down. The corner of his nameplate visible in the background. Our office. The one we built.
A buzzing started in my ears.
“Remember the way I moaned when you whispered my name?”
“Like music.”
Then another line. Time-stamped. Same day I was curled up in bed, head splitting, shivering through a fever.
“She’s sleeping. I told her not to come in today.”
“Good. I want you to taste me without rushing this time, Zeus.”
And I just… stopped. Tears slid down my face before I even realized I was crying. They dripped onto the phone screen. Onto her skin. Onto his words.
I tried to breathe. But it felt like my lungs were full of stones. I stared at him, slumped on the couch—lips parted, completely unaware. I tried to speak. Tried to say his name. Tried to scream.
But nothing came out. Then I stood. Walked to the study like a ghost in my own home.
Opened the drawer. Pulled out the pregnancy test and the crumpled report with the diagnosis still circled in red ink. I slid them under the ledger. Buried them. I didn’t want to see them. Not tonight. Maybe not ever.