Bertram said nothing. He strode inside without a word.
The receptionist at the front desk hurried over, practically bowing.
"Mr. Delgado, everything you requested has been arranged. Your wife is inside, in class."
Wife? Class?
I looked at Bertram, frowning.
He didn't offer a single word of explanation. Not until I saw her through the glass partition: Alexis Pruitt, sitting attentively in a parenting class.
The air left my lungs.
Three pregnancies. Three times I had asked him to come to parenting classes with me.
And every time, the same answer: "Prue, I just took over the company. All my energy needs to go into the projects."
To make things easier for him, I had swapped out the parenting classes for massage techniques and cooking courses instead. Every day I stayed home like a good wife, waiting for him to walk through the door so I could cook for him, knead the tension from his shoulders.
Ten years. Ten years I kept that up.
I couldn't stop myself from looking at him, and the dull ache in my chest deepened into something unbearable.
Bertram's gaze was locked on Alexis. The faint smile curving his lips, the tenderness spilling from his eyes, was so thick it was almost obscene.