From behind the closed door, I could still hear my husband comforting that woman in a gentle voice before they left.
I glanced at our wedding photo on the wall, and just like that, I couldn't hold back the tears any longer.
I was about to drift off when Cedric finally walked into our bedroom. He'd been out dropping Anya off, and considering how late it was, they must've taken their sweet time saying goodbye.
He sat down next to me, and right away, the thick, sugary scent of some perfume—definitely not mine—hit me like a punch.
"Astrid," he said, trying to keep his voice gentle, "I was on a business trip yesterday and just happened to pass through Anya's city. We had a chance to clear up a misunderstanding, so we came back together. And about that cake—she was just being thoughtful. You really didn't need to throw it in the trash."
I slowly sat up, a bitter smile tugging at my lips as I took a good look at him. His shirt was rumpled, the collar loose, and right there, just barely visible, was a smear of lipstick.
He kept going, that soft tone almost coaxing, but every word was about Anya—defending her. It sounded like I was the villain.