Our appetizers arrived. I picked at my salad, barely tasting it, my appetite stifled by anticipation rather than nerves. The restaurant hummed around us: the gentle clink of cutlery, the murmur of voices, the soft strains of the quartet drifting through the air. A couple at the next table over were celebrating something, too—I caught the words “promotion” and “finally” as the man raised his glass. The woman laughed, her hand touching his wrist, gazing at him like he’d hung the moon.
I wondered if she knew about his search history, his text messages, the way he looked at other women when he thought she wasn’t watching. Maybe her husband was a better man than mine. Or maybe she was just earlier in the story.
I was midway through a bite of lettuce when I felt it—the shift in the air, the subtle prickle at the back of my neck that said something was about to happen. Marcus’s eyes darted over my shoulder, and his hand froze halfway to his glass.
I didn’t turn immediately. I set my fork down. Dabbed the corner of my mouth with my napkin. Took a breath.
Then I looked up.
She was exactly what you’d expect, if you’ve met enough men like Marcus.
Jessica was young, of course. Twenty-four, with long honey-blonde hair that cascaded over her shoulders in waves that probably took at least an hour and three different products to achieve. Her dress was red, tight enough to show that yes, she had the kind of body you’d see on fitness influencers, but just tasteful enough that she could claim innocence if anyone accused her of dressing inappropriately for a work function.
Tonight, she wasn’t pretending it was about work. She walked toward our table with the confident little sway of a woman who knew she turned heads, her heels clicking smartly against the polished floor, lips painted the same shade of red as her dress.
“Surprise,” she said brightly, as if this were some kind of game, and pulled out the empty chair at our table without asking. “I hope you don’t mind me joining your special night, but I have amazing news.”
Marcus shot to his feet. “Jessica, what are you doing here?”
His voice had that tight edge to it now, the one that used to appear only when he talked about quarterly losses or difficult clients. Seeing it directed at his mistress instead of a spreadsheet was… oddly satisfying.
Jessica flicked her gaze to him, then to me, vaguely polite, as if I were a distant relative or a coworker’s wife, not the woman whose last name she was currently sleeping with. “I didn’t want to wait,” she said. “I just couldn’t. This is too important.”
I picked up my wineglass, letting the stem rest against my fingers. “Do tell,” I murmured.
She turned to Marcus fully, her face breaking into a wide smile. For a moment, I saw the little girl under the makeup—the earnest excitement, the belief that love and grand gestures were enough to rewrite the rules of the world.
“I’m pregnant,” she announced. Loudly. Too loudly, in fact. Heads turned at nearby tables. A waiter glanced over, then quickly looked away. Jessica’s hand fluttered to her perfectly flat stomach. “We’re having a baby, Marcus. Isn’t that wonderful?”
In the space of one heartbeat, I watched my husband’s entire world crash and burn behind his eyes.
He went very still. All the color drained from his face. His mouth opened, then snapped closed. His gaze flicked to me, as if realizing only now that I existed, as if he hadn’t just brought his life, his lies, and his mistress into the same room.
“Jessica,” he began, his voice strangled. “This… we shouldn’t… this isn’t—”
I took a slow sip of my wine, savoring the crisp taste on my tongue. I had pictured this moment in a hundred different ways over the past few weeks—Jessica showing up at his office, calling his phone in tears, confronting him in the company lobby—but this? Walking into our anniversary dinner in a red dress, announcing her pregnancy like she’d just won the lottery?
This was better.
“Congratulations,” I said.
Jessica’s eyes snapped to me, surprised. Her head tilted, a small frown creasing her brow. She hadn’t expected that. Anger, yes. Screaming, probably. Maybe a dramatic exit with a thrown drink for added flair. But not… this.
“Excuse me?” she asked, the first note of uncertainty creeping into her voice.
“Congratulations,” I repeated calmly, setting my glass down. “On the baby. That is what we say when someone announces a pregnancy, isn’t it?”
“Olivia—” Marcus started, warning in his tone.
I ignored him. I reached down and slipped my hand into my purse, fingers closing around the envelope waiting inside. My pulse didn’t quicken. My breath didn’t hitch. The anger that had once burned through me like acid had cooled months ago, hardening into something sharp and controlled.
“Since we’re sharing news,” I said, placing the envelope on the table between us, “I have something too.”
Jessica’s eyes lit up again, curiosity overriding whatever flicker of doubt had just appeared. “What kind of news?” she asked.
“Well,” I said, sliding the envelope toward her, “why don’t you take a look? Consider it my anniversary gift.”
She laughed lightly. “That’s… dramatic.”
“Oh,” I replied, “you have no idea.”
Jessica picked up the envelope and tore it open with the same eagerness she probably used to open parcels from luxury brands. She pulled out the stack of papers inside and frowned, her eyes scanning the first page. Then the second. The third.
The smile slid off her face.
“I… I don’t understand,” she said slowly. “What is this?”
Marcus reached for the papers with shaking hands. I watched his eyes move across the lines of text, watched the exact moment it hit him. Recognition. Shock. Then, dread.
He went from pale to ghostly.
“Olivia,” he whispered.
“Yes, darling?” I said sweetly.
“These are—”
“Medical records,” I supplied. “Your medical records, to be precise.”
Jessica looked between us. “What medical records?”
