Chapter 2 - The Silent GameI didn't scream. I didn't throw the ultrasound photo in Damon's face, and I didn't march over to the closet to yank Claire out by her hair.
Years of working as a corporate risk assessor had taught me one fundamental rule: the moment your opponent knows you have discovered their vulnerability, they begin hiding their tracks.
"Emily?" Damon asked, his eyes darting to my pale face. "Are you okay? You look like you're about to faint."
"I'm... just tired," I lied, forcing my hands to stop shaking. I slipped the ultrasound picture into my purse, carefully zipping it shut. "The clinic was crowded. I think I just need a glass of ice water."
"I'll get it for you!" Damon offered instantly, far too eager to get me out of the bedroom. He took three large strides toward the doorway. "Go sit downstairs on the couch, babe. I'll bring it right down."
"Thanks," I murmured.
As I turned my back on him and walked out toward the hallway, I caught my reflection in the vanity mirror. My face was drained of color, but my eyes were blazing.
I walked down the stairs, making sure my footsteps sounded heavy and slow. The moment my feet hit the hardwood floor of the ground level, I tiptoed into the kitchen, tucked myself into the blind spot near the pantry, and waited.
Ten seconds later, I heard the closet door upstairs creak open.
Low, panicked whispers floated down through the ventilation shaft above the stove.
"Is she downstairs?!" Claire's frantic voice hissed.
"Yes! She's in the kitchen," Damon whispered back loudly. "Grab your shoes and your bag! You need to go through the back patio door right now!"
"Where's my camisole?!" Claire demanded, her voice tight with panic. "Damon, I can't find my lace camisole!"
"Forget the damn shirt, Claire! Just get out before she comes back up!"
Footsteps rushed toward the back staircase—the narrow service steps that led from the master suite down to the laundry room near the garage.
I slipped quietly into the dining room, ducking behind the long linen curtains near the french doors overlooking the back yard.
Through the glass, I watched her.
Claire scrambled out through the laundry room exit. She was wearing her designer jeans and an oversized grey hoodie—Damon's hoodie. Her hair was tangled, her makeup smeared under her eyes, and her feet were crammed unlaced into her leather loafers.
She clutched her expensive leather tote bag against her chest, looking frantically from left to right like a cornered animal, before sprinting through our side gate toward the residential street where her car was parked around the block.
My best friend. The woman who had been my maid of honor. The woman who was scheduled to be my daughter's godmother in less than two months.
"Here you go, honey," Damon's voice boomed from the kitchen.
I stepped out from behind the dining room curtains, taking a slow, deep breath, smoothing down my sweater over my pregnant belly.
"I'm in here," I called out, my tone completely flat.
Damon walked into the dining room holding a glass of iced water. He handed it to me with a brilliant, rehearsed smile—the same smile he used when closing multi-million-dollar real estate deals.
"You should really rest today," Damon said softly, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers smelled faintly of Claire's peony perfume. I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from flinching away from his touch. "Why don't you take a nap upstairs? I'll head back to the office."
"That sounds like a good idea," I said, taking a small sip of the cold water. "You have a big afternoon, don't you?"
"Huge meeting at two," he lied smoothly, checking his rose-gold wristwatch. "Investors for the new waterfront property."
"Don't work too hard," I whispered.
He kissed my cheek, grabbed his suit jacket off the entry hall coat rack, and closed the front door behind him.
The moment his car engine started in the driveway, I threw the glass of water into the kitchen sink and marched straight up the stairs.
I put on a pair of rubber cleaning gloves, grabbed a plastic Ziploc bag from the pantry, and went to the foot of our bed. I reached under the upholstered velvet bench and pulled out Claire's champagne lace camisole.
I sealed it inside the Ziploc bag.
Then I walked over to Damon's nightstand.
I pulled open the top drawer. Behind a stack of old passports lay his personal iPad. I unlocked it using the anniversary date he thought I never paid attention to.
I clicked open his message history.
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What I found in those encrypted threads wasn't just a brief, foolish fling. It was a systematic, two-year execution of betrayal that went far deeper than my bedroom.
And Claire wasn't his only partner in crime.
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