After three years of working away from home, my husband came back with a strange new habit: every night, he wrapped his arms around my waist from behind, something he had never done before. I asked him, “Who taught you to sleep like that?” He sighed and replied, “If you pretend you don’t know, you can keep being my wife.” I didn’t argue. The next day, I called my lawyer because I already had proof of what he had been doing for those three years.

“No.”

“It’s simple.”

He took another drag.

Then said.

“I came home, didn’t I?”

My stomach turned.

“That’s your answer?”

“You’re my wife.”

“And Gwen?”

Silence.

“Christopher.”

“She understands the situation.”

I almost smiled.

“What situation?”

“That there are different parts of my life.”

I stared.

He had turned betrayal into organization.

Then he walked toward the bed.

Sat beside me.

His voice softened.

“Give me some time.”

That familiar tone.

The old Christopher.

The man I had loved.

“I’ll end things with her.”

My eyes filled.

He touched my cheek.

I wanted so badly to believe him.

That was the dangerous part.

Even after everything, some part of me still wanted the old version back.

Then I remembered the condo lease.

Gwen’s mother’s birthday.

The money.

The others.

I moved his hand away.

“How much time?”

He hesitated.

“A few weeks.”

I nodded.

“Okay.”

His shoulders relaxed.

He thought I had accepted.

I had not.

That night, he slept in the guest room.

At 1:57 a.m., I woke thirsty.

I went downstairs.

As I approached the kitchen, I heard his voice.

Low.

Warm.

Laughing.

A laugh I had not heard in years.

He was sitting in the den.

Laptop open.

Video call.

Gwen’s voice came through.

“Why did you tell her about me?”

Childlike.

Soft.

Then.

“Now she probably hates me.”

Christopher laughed.

“As long as I’m here, no one is going to hurt you.”

I stood in the dark hallway.

My hand tightened around the glass.