Back then, Ethan had pulled me into his arms and promised, his voice steady and sure, “Claire, that’s never going to happen. Ever.”
But here we were, five years later, and his promises had turned to ash.
When I returned to the room, Ethan was all composed on the sofa. There were no women around him.
The dancer was still on stage, though. Her flushed face and slightly disheveled camisole were the only hints of what had happened while I was gone.
If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I would never have believed that the Ethan I knew—the one who always seemed so polished, so proper—could cross a line like that. And this wasn’t even his first time.
Five years of marriage, and I’d been the only one holding on to our vows like a fool.
“Claire, what took you so long? You okay?” Ethan asked, his brows furrowed in concern. He reached for my hand and checked my forehead like a fragile doll.
The cloying scent of perfume on his hand hit me hard. My stomach churned, and I instinctively pulled away, covering my nose.
“Claire!” Ethan’s voice was sharp, almost panicked. “Are you nauseous? Do we need to go to the hospital?”
I shook my head, feeling the bile rise.