Chapter 3 I Found Another Woman's Jacket

He came home early.

I was still in the same cashmere cardigan from last night, holding a cold mug of chamomile tea, when I heard the key turn in the lock. My heart stopped. He was supposed to be back tomorrow night.

Zachary stood in the doorway. Same white shirt from the video call, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, hair slightly messy from travel. He looked tired, but his eyes lit up when he saw me.

In one hand, a small pink box tied with a gold ribbon. In the other, a paper bag from Frenchette Bakery. The one on West Broadway that never opens before eight.

"You were supposed to be back tomorrow," I said, my voice smaller than I wanted it to be.

"The Chicago acquisition got pushed. The commissioners had a family emergency." He set the bags down and walked straight to me, cupping my face with both hands. His hands were warm. Real. "I took the first flight back. I couldn't stand another night in that hotel room staring at the river."

He leaned in and pressed his forehead against mine. Our habit. For ten years, this was how we said hello and goodbye. The same gesture he did before he left for Chicago.

For a second, the man from the livestream at The Plaza vanished. This was just Zachary. My husband. The man who once sat with me on the empty floor of our first office, counting our last dollars.

"I got you something," he whispered.

Inside the pink box was a first-edition poetry collection by Mary Oliver. The one I had mentioned exactly once, two weeks ago, while chopping onions in the kitchen. I had said, "I wish I still had time to read poetry."

He remembered. He always remembered these tiny things.

"I saw it in a bookstore near the St. Regis and thought of you," he said.

My throat tightened. The guilt hit me like a wave. How could I have doubted him? How could I have thought the man in the grey suit with my birthday watch was him? The livestream must have been blurry. A lookalike. My imagination.

"You remembered," I said, clutching the book.

"Of course I remember everything my wife says," he said, wrapping his arms around my waist from behind, his chin resting on my shoulder. "You think I'd rather be in a mahogany hotel room in Chicago than here with you and Zoe?"

Zoe came running down the hall in her planet-patterned pajamas, hair a wild mess. "Papa!"

Zachary laughed and scooped her up. "There's my astronaut. Did you miss me?"

"I made you a rocket!" she shouted.

For the next hour, the penthouse felt like ours again. We ate the croissants he brought. He helped Zoe tape her rocket together on the living room floor. He asked about her space project. He asked about my sleep. He was perfect. Attentive. Present.

That was his most dangerous weapon. He wasn't cold. He wasn't distant. He was so perfect it made my own suspicion feel like a disease.

At nine, we had to leave for Sunday service. We took the black Lincoln SUV. Zachary driving, me in the passenger seat, Zoe and Bruna in the second row.

The city was wet from last night's drizzle. Manhattan blurred past the windows.

"Papa, where is my teddy bear?" Zoe asked from the back, kicking her feet.

"I think it's in the third row, sweetie. Mommy will get it for you," Zachary said, eyes on the road, one hand resting casually on the wheel. The same hand that wore the watch I bought him.

I unbuckled and leaned into the third row. The car smelled like his bergamot cologne and leather. I reached under the seats, feeling for soft fur.

My fingers touched something else. Coarse. Cold. Tweed.

I pulled it out.

A woman's cropped tweed jacket. Cream with black trim, pearl buttons, Chanel-style but not Chanel. Size 0. Petite. Not mine. I have never owned anything this small, this... girlish in my life.

And the scent hit me instantly. Not bergamot. Tuberose. Strong, sweet, cloying, expensive. A perfume that screams to be noticed.

My hands went cold.

"Found it, Angel?" Zachary asked, glancing at me in the rearview mirror. His hazel eyes were warm with concern.

Behind me, Bruna leaned forward. "Mrs. Rhea? Need help?"

My heart was pounding so loud I was sure they could hear it. I turned the jacket over, my fingers numb.

Something small and silver fell from its pocket and landed on the dark carpet.

A square, foil-wrapped packet.

I stared at it for three full seconds, my brain refusing to understand.

An unused, unopened condom. Durex. The extra-sensitive kind.

The air left my lungs.

This was not a staff member's jacket. Our staff would never leave something like this in the CEO's private SUV.

This was a woman who had been in this car. Recently. In this exact third row.

"Mommy? Is my bear there?" Zoe's voice was getting whiny. Zachary was starting to turn his head. He was going to look back. Hide it. Now. My left hand shot out blindly to the other side of the third row and found the soft, familiar fur of Zoe's brown teddy bear. "I-it's here! I found your bear, sweetie!" My voice cracked high and fake. I forced the widest smile I could muster, crawled back to the second row, and shoved both the bear and the tweed jacket deep into the pocket of my cashmere coat, balling my fist around the condom. I handed Zoe the bear. She hugged it. Zachary was watching me in the rearview mirror, his brow furrowed. "You look pale, Rhea. Dizzy again? You were pale last night on the call too." "Just... bent over too long looking," I whispered, my hand clenched so tight around the foil in my coat pocket that my nails cut into my palm. The SUV glided forward. The tuberose scent was now trapped in my coat, mixing with his cologne, making me nauseous. He reached over while driving and took my free hand, squeezing it. His hand was warm. Steady. Reassuring. The same hand that had been wrapped around another woman's waist on a livestream ten hours ago. The same hand that now held a poetry book for me and a condom for someone else in the same car. I looked down at our intertwined hands. At the watch on his wrist. At the poetry book on my lap. Which one was the real Zachary? The man who remembered my favorite poet, or the man who left a stranger's perfume in our family car? I didn't know anymore. And that not-knowing was the most terrifying thing of all.