Chapter 2

Elena Hendricks POV

The earliest of these posts went back almost a year.

Last November, for his birthday, I had spent four hours slow-braising short ribs.

I set the table with fresh flowers and baked a chocolate cake from scratch.

That night, Jameson posted a photo of the table on the forum.

“The wife made dinner tonight,” he wrote. “She looks so pleased with herself. All I could think about was how many times she must have cooked this exact meal for Cameron in college. Every bite tasted like another man’s leftovers.”

I could still see that night clearly.

Jameson had kissed my hands, raved about the short ribs, and insisted I go rest in the living room while he washed every last dish.

He had smiled at me through the kitchen doorway and said that meeting me was the luckiest thing that had ever happened to him.

I kept scrolling.

In January, he had written a long post indicting my phone passcode.

“Her passcode is 1014,” he wrote. “October 14th. She says we chose it because it’s our anniversary. Our anniversary. The same day Cameron proposed to her at the lake house, in front of all our friends. She swears that’s a coincidence. Does she think I’m an idiot? Every time I watch her unlock that phone in front of me, I want to smash the damn thing against the wall.”

My passcode was 1014 because October 14th was the day we stood in the city clerk’s office and got married.

I had changed it on our wedding day, to mark our marriage.

He had never once asked me why I used those numbers.

For two years he had simply let that tumor rot in his chest, chewing over and magnifying a humiliation he had invented out of nothing.

In February, I came down with a vicious flu and lay shivering in bed for three days.

Jameson took time off work to stay home and care for me. He made me soup, wiped my forehead with cool cloths, and held my hair back when I was sick.

I cried with gratitude and told myself I was the luckiest woman alive.

On the forum, he wrote: “She’s sick and pathetic-looking. And I’m the one who has to clean up after her. Cameron got her young and tight and full of energy. I get the broken, sobbing mess. What exactly was I thinking, taking on this burden?”

Then the posts stopped for a while. He spent two months of that stretch in Singapore, and apparently even his contempt needed an audience.

The most recent post before Denver had gone up last week.

It had been pouring that day. My car died outside the grocery store.

Jameson fought rush-hour traffic for an hour and a half to come get me.

He wrapped his dry wool coat around my shoulders and stood in the downpour loading the groceries into the trunk, soaked to the skin.

When we got home, I peeled off his wet clothes and kissed his cold shoulders.

We made love on the rug in front of the fireplace.

I had thought it was one of the most romantic nights of our marriage.

On the forum, he posted: “Tonight I played the gallant husband rescuing his damsel in the rain. She ate it up. We had sex, but I had to close my eyes to get through it. All I could see was her underneath Cameron in their old bedroom. Touching her makes me feel filthy.”

Bile surged into my throat.

I threw the phone down on the counter and stumbled to the downstairs bathroom.

I dropped to my knees in front of the toilet and heaved until there was nothing left in me.

Dry retches tore through my chest.

My ribs burned. Cold sweat soaked the back of my neck.

Every touch, every kiss, every tender compliment of the past two years rotted in my memory at once, turning to pus.

I pushed myself up, rinsed my mouth at the sink, and looked at myself in the mirror.

Colorless. Eyes red-rimmed.

The click of the lock broke the silence of the house.

Heavy footsteps came from the entryway.

“Elena?” Jameson’s voice, warm and rich. “Sweetheart, are you home? I changed to an earlier flight. I couldn’t stand the thought of a whole night without you.”

The sound of it turned my stomach.

I dried my face with a towel, pushed the bathroom door open, and stepped into the hall.

Jameson stood by the entryway console, dropping his leather weekender onto the hardwood floor.

He wore a well-cut navy suit, his tie loosened at the collar.

He looked handsome, sharp, entirely at ease.

The moment he saw me, that signature gentle smile spread across his face.

“There you are,” he said, opening his arms and coming toward me. “I missed you so much.”

He reached out to pull me into his arms.

I stepped back fast, twice, until my shoulder blades hit the cold wall.

His arms stopped in midair.

The smile faltered, then reshaped itself into concern.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, tilting his head. “Are you angry that I didn’t tell you I was taking the earlier flight? I wanted to surprise you.”

He reached out again, fingertips testing for my chin.

“The weather in Denver was miserable,” he went on, his tone smooth. “Nothing but endless board meetings all day. All I could think about was getting home to you.”

I stared into his deep-set eyes.

There was not a flicker of guilt anywhere on that face.

If I had not seen those posts with my own eyes, I would have gone straight into his arms and apologized for not having dinner ready.

“Who is she, Jameson?” I asked.

My voice came out flat and dry, without a tremor in it.

Jameson frowned. “Who is who? Elena, what are you talking about?”

“The woman who was in your suite this morning,” I said, meeting his eyes and spacing out every word. “The one you slept with to get your precious manhood back. Isn’t that right?”