“For what?”
She savored her answer.
“Ethan and Vanessa.”
Vanessa Hale. Ethan’s twenty-eight-year-old “marketing consultant.”
The woman whose messages I’d discovered six months earlier.
Margaret leaned closer.
“She’s pregnant.”
For a second, everything went silent.
Then Ethan said quietly, “I was going to tell you after the divorce.”
I stared at him.
Seven years.
Three fertility treatments.
Two miscarriages.
Countless nights of him holding me while I cried.
And now his mistress was pregnant.
Margaret mistook my silence for surrender.
“Tonight, we finally celebrate the future of this family.”
I lifted my suitcase into the taxi.
Then I looked back at the massive Georgian mansion, the Whitmore family crest above the entrance, and the smug woman beneath it.
“You should enjoy every minute,” I said.
Margaret smiled. “I intend to.”
I climbed into the taxi and closed the door.
Only after we pulled away did I take out my phone.
