I think my husband loves me—until I walk in on his Director of Finance riding him like a cowgirl.

I step into the apartment with my two daughters.

About twenty feet away, my husband is sitting in the middle of a white leather sofa, manspreading. A woman is straddling his lap, riding him. She's na-ked except for nu-de slingback heels with red soles.

I feel like the butterflies in my stomach flapping with hopeless panic.

I blink my eyes like that'll wipe the scene away, but the woman is still there, working herself up and down on my husband's co-ck.

I know her, Delaney Pierson, the Director of Finance.

Delaney is still working herself up and down Adrian's co-ck. He's wearing a con-dom. You can tell when she's up.

My heart hurts. I go to press my fist against it, to staunch the pain.

He's scowling at me now over Delaney's na-ked shoulder.

"Get them out of here, Schmidt," Adrian snarls.

He means us. His family. He's kicking us out. Delaney gets to stay. On his di-ck.

My brain still can't catch up. It's a broken escalator.

This man is unrecognizable as my husband. Cold leaks from my core, trickling down my arms and legs, numbing my fingertips and toes.

——————

CORA

The elevator swoops up to the sixty-second floor, and my stomach tightens with anticipation. I stroke Winnie's bald head to calm my nerves and squeeze Pearl's tiny hand.

"Ready to see Daddy?" I ask. Pearl smiles up at me.

She's such a champ. It's almost two hours past her bedtime, and both girls napped during the drive in from Connecticut. They're still groggy, but perking up, excited to surprise Daddy. He's been stuck in the city all week, and he sounded exhausted on the phone today. He said he couldn't wait to be home, so I thought I'd bring home to him.

Schmidt and Tiller, my bodyguards, loom behind us, their faces reflected in the polished bra-ss elevator doors, their disapproval masked except for the corners of their downturned mouths. They don't like that I left the estate so late at night, especially with the children. They wanted to run this visit by Adrian's security, but I told them they'd ruin the surprise. Adrian's people tell him everything.

My bodyguards treat me like a child. I suppose I am young enough to be Schmidt's child. I'm twenty-six, and he's at least fifty. He's the highest-ranking man on my security team, though, so when Tiller was stonewalling me about leaving so late, Schmidt called for the car and told Tiller, "She's the boss."

According to the prenup, that's true. It's one of the few things I remember. The contract was longer than a software terms of service and all small print. I skimmed most of it-or tried to and failed-but for some reason, the pa-ssage about my security detail stuck in my head. They report to me, and if Adrian and I get divorced, I keep them.

Not that we're ever going to split up. I was nervous when we first got together, but after two kids in five years, we're definitely family for life. We're an odd couple for sure-he's twelve years older than me, richer than God, and he never smiles-but we fit. He takes care of me, and the girls and I make a warm, loving home for him. He needs that in his life.

I don't care how rich they are, he comes from awful people. His dad is this sleazy guy who squandered his inheritance and now basically leeches off the business that his sons built. Adrian's grandfather had money, but I guess after his experience with his son, he kept his money to himself until he died. He didn't seem to have much interest in his grandkids, from what I can tell.

His mom straight-up abandoned her kids. One day, she had enough of her husband's cheating, and she bailed to go live on a commune in Switzerland or something. Of course, Adrian didn't tell me the backstory. His brother Logan did. Logan is ex-military and runs the family's security, but he's the least scary Maddox brother, Adrian included.

I don't need Adrian to be an open book or therapized, though. Lord knows, I'm not. I accept him for him, and he has us to love him now-Pearl, baby Winnie, and who knows, maybe soon, we'll have another bun cooking in the oven.

Winnie kicks her feet in her carrier and grabs at my face. I ki-ss her fingertips when they graze my lips.

Adrian is going to be so happy to see us. These days, he can't tolerate being away from us for too long. He'll deal with it for a night here or there, but we travel with him if he needs to be away longer than that.

He sounded so blank on the phone last night, like he didn't have an ounce of energy left after his day. He's involved in a hostile takeover. He didn't tell me about it, of course. He doesn't worry me with business, but I overheard. I didn't hear which party is the hostile one, but I bet it's him.

Adrian intimidates everyone except his brothers, me included, but the feeling gives me delicious shivers down my spine. I don't mind it.

Being married to Adrian is like owning a Doberman, except the Doberman owns everything and barks orders that people immediately obey, and he's twice as smart as everyone else in the room. Growing up, I always thought it would feel so safe to have an attack dog who loved you and only you, and I was right.

"Mrs. Maddox, are you sure you don't want to get the little ones settled first? We can take them to one of the corporate suites, and I'll watch them," Tiller says, breaking the silence.

"But they're part of the surprise." I flash him a smile over my shoulder so he knows that I appreciate the offer.

When I turn back to face the elevator doors, I catch Schmidt shooting him a strange look in the reflection, almost like a warning. I don't have time to wonder about it because a bell dings, the doors slide open, and I step over the marble threshold into the apartment where Adrian sleeps when he has to stay in the city. Butterflies erupt in my stomach in anticipation. He's going to be so surprised to see us.

About twenty feet away, my husband is sitting in the middle of a white leather sofa, manspreading. A woman is straddling his lap, riding him. She's na-ked except for nu-de slingback heels with red soles.

No. Not nu-de. Blush. I own those same shoes. They cost eight hundred and ninety-five dollars for one pair. I have them in black patent leather, too.

Schmidt mutters "sh-it" and grabs Pearl, tucking her face to his chest and twisting around so she can't see. Tiller and I instinctively close ranks, blocking Pearl's view of the apartment. I blink over at Tiller and a dumb thought wanders across my brain like a bumblebee-who's going to hide my eyes?

"Mrs. Maddox." Tiller grabs my arm, urging me back into the elevator. I yank myself free and step forward instead.

In the community room at Villa Theresa, there was a laundry basket full of board games. There was a generic Jenga game called Tower Tumble with almost all of its pieces, enough to build a structure high enough to get wobbly. The older kids played all the time. We played all the games all the time. The facility's budget didn't stretch to cable TV.

I never had steady nerves, so I was always the one to knock it over. There was always a moment, when I pulled out a block a little too fast or my hand shook or the tower simply wouldn't hold anymore, a split-second right before it collapsed, when everyone held their breath. As I step out of the elevator, the butterflies in my stomach flap with hopeless panic exactly like they did then.

I have made a terrible mistake.

I blink my eyes like that'll wipe the scene away, but the woman is still there, working herself up and down on my husband's co-ck. Her copper red hair flows down her back. She's gorgeous. I know her. Her name is Delaney Pierson, and she works with Adrian. She's important. The Director of Finance. She has her own office on corporate row and her own secretary.

She always shakes my hand too tightly and smiles like we're both in on a secret. I always figured the secret was that I don't belong, but I guess it's that she's fu-cking my husband.

Adrian is wearing a tux. His arms are stretched out along the back of the sofa. His phone is in his hand, his gold wedding band on his finger.

He's scowling at me now over Delaney's na-ked shoulder, but a split second ago, when I first caught sight of him, he was scrolling on his phone. I know what he's doing-he's checking the markets. A woman is riding his di-ck, and he's keeping an eye on his stocks. Of course. The TSE and the ASX just opened.

When I was a kid, one of my foster moms had a rule that there were no phones at the dinner table, but when her husband pissed her off by shoveling down his food and slouching off to watch TV in the garage, she'd let us get on our phones while we finished eating. The rules were suspended.

I guess when you cheat on your wife, the rules are suspended, too. You can go ahead and be rude.

For a moment, this is the thing about this whole scenario that makes the most sense to my brain-if someone let him, Adrian would absolutely monitor his portfolio while he fu-cked.

"Mrs. Maddox," Tiller urges, squeezing my shoulder. "The children."

Oh God. Yes. The children. What am I thinking? They can't see this. We have to get out of here.

Delaney is still working herself up and down Adrian's co-ck. He's wearing a con-dom. You can tell when she's up.

She's waxed totally bare down there. Adrian likes me to trim, not wax. He says pubic hair is natural, and to him, natural is good. He's always lecturing me about microplastics and PFCs and BPAs and phthalates.

How can I remember the name of every bad chemical now while a woman is raising and lowering herself on my husband's di-ck like a merry-go-round horse? If this were a random Tuesday, I wouldn't be able to remember a single one.

The two of them look like a magazine spread, with her red hair and his black tux and her red soles and his thick black-brown hair. Against the white sofa, the wall of gla-ss, and all the city lights beyond, it's all very postmodern, if I understand postmodern correctly.

Art and style are new to me. Rich people and prenups and fancy open concept apartments with views of the entire city still feel new to me, too.

We're so high in the air up here. So exposed. There are no shades or curtains on the gla-ss walls. Anyone high enough could see this woman fu-ck my husband.

Oh no, the children. I forgot again. What's wrong with me? I cover Winnie's eyes, even though she's facing me. She squeals a protest.

"Delaney," Adrian finally says sharply, gripping the redhead's waist to stop her from jacking herself up and down.

She glances back over her shoulder, tossing her glorious copper hair. Her smokey eyes round with exaggerated surprise as her pouty red mouth forms a fake little "O."

Oh, she heard us. She heard us, and she didn't stop. Now, finally, she makes a move to dismount, but Adrian holds in her place.

"Stay," he snaps at her.

"Mommy?" Pearl whispers from behind me.

What do I do? My legs don't work. Neither do my eyes. I can't tear them away. Delaney's creamy skin is perfect. Her heart-shaped a-ss is perfect; her butt crack is a perfect pink. She looks like fan art. Like a hor-ny teenage boy drew her.

Is Adrian in love with her?

Is this what he really wants? I thought he didn't like the woman on top.

"Get them out of here, Schmidt," Adrian snarls.

He means us. His family. He's kicking us out. Delaney gets to stay. On his di-ck.

My brain still can't catch up. It's a broken escalator, and every thought I have immediately slides down into a jumbled heap.

Adrian is fu-cking Delaney from the office on the corporate apartment's sofa, even though he's in love with me. He doesn't say it-he told me when we got together that he doesn't do heart-to-hearts-but he shows me all the time in a hundred ways. Besides, a man like him would never marry a woman like me if he weren't head over heels in love.

He married me, even though we're so different, because I make him happy. He does things for me he's never done for any other woman. His brothers rag the he-ll out of him for it. He might not talk about his feelings or show emotion, but that's his way. He's infamous for it.

He's Adrian Maddox. He could have married anyone, but he married me, a foster kid from Baltimore with a GED, because he loves me. It's the only way we make sense.

Why is he doing this?

I can hear the delusion, but my brain won't stop. It's trying to argue its way out of the reality staring us in the face.

Schmidt tries his luck, grabbing my upper arm from behind. "Come on, Mrs. Maddox," he says.

I jerk my arm forward. "Adrian, what's going on?"

He's the one who explains things, who takes care of things. If I have an issue, I tell him, and it's fixed immediately, either by him personally, one of his scary brothers, or by the legion of employees and henchmen at their command. Life doesn't work for him like it does for everyone else. Nothing tragic happens in Adrian Maddox's world. Nothing is a problem.

Oh God, my heart hurts. I go to press my fist against it, to staunch the pain, but Winnie's there in her carrier, so I uncurl my fingers and rest my palm on her back. She squeals again and stiffens her legs. Oh, no.

Not now.

She's working on a poop.

"Schmidt," Adrian growls. "Get them out of here now." People jump when he uses that tone of voice. Delaney tenses, but she stays put and keeps her mouth shut.

Adrian is in charge. Here and everywhere. When you have as much money as he does, you don't usually have to ask twice or raise your voice.

"Schmidt!" he barks.

Schmidt murmurs to me, his hand tugging my sleeve, but his words don't register. It's like he's talking underwater.

There's a glitch in the matrix.

I'm the glitch.

I'm not supposed to be here.

I was never supposed to be here.

I was wrong. I made a terrible mistake. The floor is crumbling under my feet.

Schmidt tugs my shirt harder. I look back over my shoulder. He has resettled Pearl on his hip, her head tucked into his shoulder so she can't see. Tiller is pushing the button to hold the elevator door open.

"Come on," Schmidt says, gently drawing me backward. "Let's take the little ones somewhere else, please, Mrs. Maddox."

Tiller holds out his hand. I take it. Behind me, Adrian makes a sound almost like a snarl, but I can't see why. My back is turned to him now.

His face blank and businesslike, Tiller guides me onto the elevator and taps the close button as fast as he can, several times, like a woodpecker.

Adrian didn't even take his pants all the way off. He didn't even push them down past his a-ss. He just unzipped them. He was still wearing a cummerbund and bowtie, too. Where did he go tonight? It's a Thursday. He didn't say he had plans.

I look at Schmidt, my forehead furrowing. He drops his hand so Pearl can raise her head. She blinks at me in confusion with wide blue eyes exactly like mine. My eyes are cornflower blue, and my hair is cornsilk blonde. That's what Adrian always says-cornflower blue, cornsilk blonde.

He loves my blue eyes and blonde hair. Everyone I've ever met has, too, but he's the only one who's ever called them cornflower blue. Cornsilk blonde. Like those are the rarest and best shades of blue and blonde.

According to Forbes, this year he's the seventh richest man in the world. He and his brothers are always jockeying with each other for position in the top twenty. He could have a woman with any shade of hair he wanted-two or three or four of them at a time-but he wanted me.

And Delaney, the redhead.

"I'm going to puke," I mumble.

Immediately, Tiller is at my back, unbuckling the baby carrier and easing Winnie away from my achy boobs. She's overdue for a feed, and she's still stiff as a board and grunting. I usually pump her legs or rub her tummy to move things along, but I can't help her now. I fold over and heave into the corner, retching over and over, but nothing comes up.

I didn't have dinner. I wasn't hungry. Even though I wouldn't admit it to myself until this moment, I was worried. Adrian sounded off on the phone earlier this evening. He said he was exhausted, but he's never tired. He wakes up at five o'clock in the morning to row for an hour, works at least twelve hours a day, and does another hour or two in the gym.

I remember now.

On the phone, there was a moment when we'd both fallen silent. A fraction of a second. A door must've opened in the background. I heard faint music and a woman's voice calling his name.

It was so quick-and so horrible-my mind refused to register it, but my body did. My stomach coiled into a knot, and the only way I could make myself feel better was to go see my husband who makes everything okay. So, I packed my babies into the car and drove an hour into the city, so we could all interrupt his director of finance riding his di-ck.

My stomach heaves, and I retch, and still, nothing comes up.

"Mama! Mama, are you sick?" Pearl's voice rises to a wail.

"I'm okay," I gasp, forcing myself to drag a deep breath down and stand up straight. "I'm okay, sweetheart."

I reach out my arms, and Pearl dives into them. She clings to my neck, nearly choking me out, while I murmur to her, over and over, "It's okay. Everything is okay."

"When can we see Daddy?"

Oh, thank goodness. By some miracle, that scene went over her head. She was so groggy from her nap in the car, Tiller and I were blocking her view, and Schmidt turned her away quickly enough. We got lucky.

I'm trying to think of an answer when Winnie saves the day.

Tiller is holding her carrier by the straps, and she's dangling with her chubby legs stiff as boards. She toots. It's a soft sound, but the elevator is small. Her face cracks into a dopey smile. In moments, the stink of baby poop fills the elevator.

Pearl picks her head up from my boobs and scolds, "Oh, Winnie, no!"

Tiller stares at the elevator doors, and stone-faced, he lifts the carrier so it's as far from himself as he can get it.

I can't laugh.

This isn't funny.

If I laugh, I'll cry.

If I cry, I'll lose it, and I don't lose it anymore. I'm better now. I'm a new person.

When I left Baltimore at eighteen, Mrs. Flowers, my social worker, said I had a fresh slate, and I've kept it pristine. I came all the way to New York City, worked nights as a cleaner while I got my GED, and then got a job as an aide at a fancy daycare on the Upper East Side. I met Adrian Maddox on the sidewalk outside of my work. We fell in love, six months later he asked me to marry him, and now we have two beautiful children. This is a fairy tale.

The nightmares are behind me.

I'm lucky now, blessed and grateful. I hold Pearl tight as my brain churns up the things I tell myself when I feel insecure and terrified that I'll inevitably lose everything again. I should be angry. Devastated. I know that, but I'm slow to process traumatic events and useless in a bad situation and always have been.

The elevator doors whoosh open, and Schmidt says, "Mrs. Maddox, this way please."

I stumble after him down a thick-carpeted hall. Schmidt swipes a keycard at the first room we reach and holds the door open. When I go to walk in, he grabs my arm. "Let Tiller go first, ma'am."

I forgot. It took me so long to internalize the security procedures, but eventually I did, and now I'm forgetting them because nothing is forever, and this was never real. How could it be? Adrian Maddox and me?

It's stupid to be heartbroken. I was delusional. This could never have been real, and I knew it, too, didn't I? Deep down?

Tiller pa-sses Winnie to his partner and enters the room with his jacket flap pushed behind his side holster, calling "clear" a minute later. Schmidt gestures for me to enter. It's a corporate suite, not nearly as well-appointed as Adrian's personal apartment above, but still nicer than many hotels I've stayed in, and I've stayed in the best in the world since I've been with Adrian.

Tiller is standing at the end of a hallway, holding a door open. "You can change the baby in here, ma'am," he says.

"Thank you," I say and try to put Pearl down so she can walk, but she's clinging to me like an octopus. I should've never brought her into the city so late at night. I should've hit the close door button on that elevator immediately. My brain is glitching. This is not good.

"I'll follow with the baby," Schmidt says.

We traipse down to the room together. Tiller lays Winnie down on the bed, Schmidt drops the leather satchel that acts as a diaper bag on a bureau, and both bodyguards beat feet, closing the door behind them.

I'm not allowed to carry a diaper bag for security reasons. In an emergency, I have to be able to run, and diaper bags could give the bad guys a strap to grab. That's the same reason I'm not allowed to wear crossbody purses. I can only carry clutches.

Adrian was kidnapped for ransom when he was a kid. They held him for a few days, and he escaped basically unhurt, but it made an impression on him.

He's always taken my safety seriously, from our very first official date when his people snuck me into the back of Vitale's to have dinner in a private room. He said being with him painted a target on my back. I thought it was so romantic that he worried about me.

Did Adrian sneak Delaney into the apartment? We're in Maddox Tower. You have to swipe in or check in at reception, but she works here. She has a badge. Did he walk in with her? Do people know what they've been doing?

How long has he been fu-cking her?

Winnie stares up at me from the white down comforter on the king-sized bed. Who puts a baby with a full diaper straight onto a white comforter? A man who doesn't do laundry, that's who.

"Mommy?" Pearl tugs at my slacks and holds up a diaper and wipes. She's such a good little helper.

"Thank you, sweetie," I say, pulling myself together. I wrangle Winnie out of her carrier. Thankfully, it wasn't a blowout. By the time I've got her cleaned up, she's almost asleep.

Pearl is exhausted, too. While I was cleaning up her sister, she put herself to bed, kicking her shoes off and crawling under the covers on the other side of the bed. It's so far past her bedtime.

Guilt grips me hard. I shouldn't have brought them with me, but I wasn't admitting anything to myself three hours ago, was I? Delusion is so weird. You suspect the truth, else why would you bother deluding yourself, but you don't let yourself confront facts. You basically gaslight yourself.

I want to be deluded again. I want to be Cinderella like I was an hour ago.

I scoop Winnie into my arms, and after I kick off my shoes, I settle onto the bed next to Pearl with my back propped against the padded headboard. Winnie snores, her head lolling back like a fat cantaloupe on the end of a skinny vine. I shift my elbow to support her better and then sit motionless, staring at the dark TV across the room.

I feel like nitroglycerine. If I move an inch, if I follow a single train of thought to completion, my life will explode the rest of the way. I have no choice but to sit on top of this comforter, legs stretched straight and crossed at the ankles, and keep my mind a perfect blank until the door opens softly, and my husband quietly steps through.

His dark hair is wet. He showered. The tux is gone. He's wearing gray slacks and a collared sweater that zips. He's dressed like any guy you'd see on Wall Street, but somehow, he looks twice as imposing, twice as rich, twice as cla-ssy. Like he elevates his clothes, not the other way around like most men.

Schmidt is right behind him.

"Cora, let's talk in the other room. Schmidt will watch the girls," he says, stepping aside so Schmidt can come in.

I cuddle Winnie tighter to my chest. Adrian's voice is so commanding, so collected, so sure that I'll do what he asks.

Everyone always does their very best to please him. Especially me, and not because I "won the trailer trash lottery" like our old housekeeper said before Adrian canned her, but because I love him. He could have chosen any rich or famous or high-achieving woman he wanted, but he picked me. He wanted me to be the mother of his children.

No one at the nursery thought he'd actually marry me, but he did because he loves me, and I love him. There has to be an explanation. His head is high. He's not ashamed.

He must have a reason. A secret twin. Amnesia. Maybe I've had a mental breakdown, and this is a hallucination.

Maybe I did something horrible-or someone framed me-and this is his revenge, and when he learns that I'm innocent, he's going to plead for my forgiveness on his knees, and it'll be someone else's fault, not his or mine, so we can go back to our life together like this never happened.

I clutch that idea like it's the edge of a cliff. He does look icily furious. That's what's happening-a terrible miscommunication. We can fix this. It'll be hard, but I can forgive him. I love him. I love our life.

I ki-ss Winnie's head and pa-ss her to Schmidt. He offers me a hand to help me off the bed, his expression perfectly blank, and I take it. Adrian's jaw flexes.

"We'll be in the living area," Adrian says to him brusquely. "Stay here."

Adrian gestures for me to go ahead of him through the door. I pad barefoot back down the hallway like I'm heading to the electric chair. I'm vaguely aware that my husband's entourage has gathered in the kitchen.

Adrian Maddox never travels alone. His security-Landry and Wilson-are leaning against the counters while James, the bodyman who carries a big bag and takes care of tasks like calling for the car, and Miche-lle, the personal a-ssistant who always interrupts us when we're having dinner, have already set themselves up at the breakfast bar, scrolling their phones.

"No interruptions," Adrian says to them as we pa-ss, and Landry nods. The others act like they can't even see us.

They must all know about Delaney. Were they in the apartment, too, hanging out in a spare room, waiting for my husband to nut?

Everyone a-ssumes I married Adrian for his money, but you couldn't pay me enough to twiddle my thumbs, waiting for a guy to blow his load. That's undignified.

Adrian leads me to the elegant, beige camelback sofa in the front room. I sit. He lowers himself into an armchair across the coffee table and folds his hands loosely in his lap, considering me like a problem.

That's how Adrian looks at people who catch his attention, how he looked at me until we really got to know each other. Like I'm data. Dread trickles down my spine.

If I look down, will the floor still be there? Because it doesn't feel like it will.

I keep my eyes locked on his face.

Adrian is almost supernaturally good looking. His body is honed from rowing, sailing, and golf, and he has a black and white movie star's face-defined cheekbones, strong jaw, coal-black eyes, sweeping lashes, straight nose, and perfect full lips. Sometimes, when he's asleep, I watch him by the light of my phone and wonder how it's possible that a person can look like him without a filter.

He can also be cold as ice. Not to me, not since the very beginning, but to other people. I heard one of his business a-ssociates call him a shark once, and another guy corrected him and said, "No, he's a megalodon. The megalodon." That felt very accurate. It does seem like he's swimming far deeper than the rest of us, and always, always moving. But not now.

He's sitting still as a statue in a boring beige armchair like it's a throne, and I'm the one who begged an audience with him.

I guess I did. I came all the way into the city from Connecticut, didn't I?

But isn't he supposed to say he's sorry and beg for my forgiveness now? Or at least look sorry?

I cross my arms and wait.

He narrows his eyes. He doesn't like that.

Where is my Adrian? This is the man he is with everyone else. He's not hard with me; he's kind and concerned and attentive. Caring. He calls me if I don't text him right after doctor's appointments. He doesn't let me eat or drink from plastic. Once, he held a sticky bun for me because he didn't want to leave it in the Styrofoam container, and I wouldn't let him throw it out and "buy me a good one."

This man is unrecognizable as my husband. Cold leaks from my core, trickling down my arms and legs, numbing my fingertips and toes.

He co-cks his head ever so slightly to the side.

He wants me to speak first.

I let myself sink into the sofa. I'm dying inside, but I went through easily a dozen foster homes before I ended up at Bellamy Cross and then Villa Theresa, and I know how to not let on that my feelings are hurt.

"I'm sorry you saw that," he finally says, almost grudgingly.

That's not what a man in love says when he's been caught cheating. Before the foster homes, when I lived with Mama, I heard so many different men begging, "Baby, please, just give me one more chance."

Adrian doesn't care that he's caught. He's done with me.

It hurts so fu-cking bad. I need to breathe, but I can't. If only I could absorb oxygen through my skin like a worm. If only I could squirm away into a hole.

"Are you leaving me?" My voice cracks despite my best effort to keep it even.

His forehead wrinkles, but only for a second before it smooths. The question took him off guard.

"Don't you think that's jumping ahead of things?" he asks.

Is it? I don't have the script. He was my first real lover. My first relationship. I've never done any of this before.

"You're having an affair," I say.

He leans back in his chair, as if he's decided we're going to be here awhile. "I wouldn't say that."

"I saw you fu-cking her." The red soles of Delaney's shoes are burned into the insides of my eyelids.

He lifts a sculpted shoulder. "It didn't mean anything."