Thursdays had always been our quiet night. No dinner parties, no late work calls, no last-minute plans. Just the two of us. I had made lemon chicken from scratch, lit the anniversary candle my sister brought us back from her trip abroad, and poured a glass of wine I had been saving for a moment that felt worth it.
By seven-thirty, the food was cold.
By eight, I had moved past worried entirely and landed somewhere much quieter and much harder.
Then I heard the front door unlock.
The Woman in the Cream Coat
My husband Ethan walked in ahead of her, tie loosened, that particular half-smile already in place — the one he wore whenever he believed charm alone could handle whatever came next. Behind him followed a tall blonde woman in a cream-colored coat, her heels clicking across our entryway with the unhurried ease of someone who had been there before.
She looked around my living room the way people look around a hotel lobby. Familiar enough not to be curious. Removed enough not to care.
“Claire,” Ethan said, in a tone that suggested I was the one creating a disruption. “We need to handle this like adults.”
I stood up slowly from the table. “Adults,” I repeated.
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