But then came the night everything changed.
Chloe had just turned four months old. It was around 2:30 a.m. when Grace woke to her baby’s soft cries. She got up to warm a bottle and noticed Andrew wasn’t in bed. At first, she assumed he was working late again — he often stayed up reviewing contracts or on late-night calls with clients in other time zones.
She padded softly through the hallway, baby monitor in one hand, bottle in the other.
As she passed the open doorway to Andrew’s home office, she heard a voice — not his. A woman’s. Laughter. Then Andrew’s voice, low and tender.
“God, you’re beautiful,” he said. “I wish I were in your arms right now.”
Grace stopped cold. Her breath caught in her throat. From where she stood, she could see the soft glow of the computer screen reflecting off his face. On it was a young woman — brunette, maybe mid-twenties. Smiling, leaning close to the camera. Dressed in a silky robe.
Andrew’s expression was so different — soft, boyish, captivated. It was the kind of look he hadn’t given her in years.
The bottle in Grace’s hand trembled. Milk spilled down her fingers. But she said nothing. She didn’t gasp. She didn’t cry. She turned around, walked silently back to their bedroom, and lay down beside her sleeping baby.
