Chapter 2

"I bought that chocolate cake you love," Ethan said the next night, setting a fancy pastry box on the dining table. He gestured toward it with a tight smile.

That bakery was in Bellevue, miles out of his way. Usually, he complained if I asked him to pick up a package two blocks away.

As he opened the box, the sickeningly sweet scent of chocolate and buttercream hit me, making my stomach churn.

"I don't really have an appetite. You eat it."

"It was fifteen bucks, Clara. At least have a bite."

"I really don't want any."

He stood there, holding a fork, with an expression I couldn't quite describe. He looked like a child who had done something wrong and was desperately trying to buy his way out of trouble.

I put down my glass and wiped my hands.

"Ethan, where were you last Wednesday afternoon?"

The fork froze halfway to his mouth.

"The school seminar. How many times do I have to tell you?"

"Then why was there a prenatal checkup receipt from a women's clinic in your car?"

The room went dead silent for three long seconds.

Then, he laughed. It wasn't a guilty laugh; it was a bitter, defensive snort.

"You went through my car?"

"It slipped out from under the floor mat. I saw it when I got in."

"I was helping Dave's wife! She had a sudden complication, Dave was stuck out of town, and he asked me to rush her to the clinic. How is it weird that she dropped the receipt in my car?"

He grabbed a napkin and wiped his mouth, his voice growing louder and more confident as he spoke. "Clara, what happened to you? You've been out of the workforce for three years. Has staying at home all day literally rotted your brain?"

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means look at yourself!" He slammed the fork onto the table, his voice raising a octave. "Chloe graduated from an Ivy League. She stays up until 2 AM preparing lesson plans, and she just won the district-wide teaching award last week. What about you? What do you do all day? What gives you the right to project your trashy, insecure thoughts onto a girl who is actually working hard?"

The cake sat open on the table, the frosting slowly melting.

I said nothing.

He took a deep breath, as if realizing he had gone too far, and tried to soften his tone. "Look, I don't want to fight. But this isn't healthy. You're getting paranoid. Maybe you should see a therapist."

"Okay," I said.

He blinked, caught off guard.

"What did you say?"

"I said okay. I'll book an appointment."

That night, I slept in the guest bedroom. Before closing my eyes, I opened Instagram.

Chloe had updated her feed. It was a photo of the rain outside a window. Her caption read:

"Cuddled up under an umbrella in the storm, and the doctor says everything is perfect. Someone promised he'd take care of us forever."

The geotag read: *Westside Women’s Private Health.*

A twelve-minute walk from our condo.

I stared at the post for a long time. Her profile picture showed her side profile—soft low ponytail, tied with a pale yellow silk ribbon. She looked so innocent. So clean.

I put my phone down, walked into the master bedroom, and opened the closet.

Ethan walked over from the living room, leaning against the doorframe as he watched me pack my clothes into a suitcase.

"What are you doing?"

"Staying somewhere else for a few days."

"Where?"

"A hotel."

He crossed his arms and let out a dry laugh. "With the few thousand bucks left in your personal account? How long is that going to last? You might survive three nights at a motel, but you won't last two days at a Marriott."

I ignored him.

"Come back when you've calmed down," he said, walking back to the couch. His voice was just loud enough to carry into the bedroom. "I'm not changing the smart-lock code. You can come home whenever you're ready to apologize."

The zipper on my suitcase got stuck. I had to yank it twice to shut it.

When I walked out, he was staring at his phone, not even bothering to look up.

The hallway lights were motion-activated. After I took a few steps, they clicked off, plunging me into darkness.

My phone vibrated in my pocket.

A text from him: "Don't forget to eat."

I deleted the thread and called an Uber.

***