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He laid out the schedule like he was delegating tasks at the office. Monday, Wednesday, Friday—he'd be with my best friend. Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday—he'd grace me with his presence. Sundays off, for everyone to recover. I stood there in my wedding dress, still holding the roses she'd helped me pick out three days ago. The thing was, he wasn't asking. He was informing me she was pr3/gn-nt. "You introduced us," he said, lighting a c!g@/rette. "Soon as I met her, I finally understood what love felt like. What I felt for you? Just habit. Years of it." I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. One was my husband. The other was my best friend. The woman I'd rescued from an abus!ve marriage, the one I'd let live in my home. But here's the k!cker—he actually looked confused when I started laughing. "What?" he asked, frowning. "I'm being honest with you." "Honest." I tasted the word like poison. "You've been sneaking around with her for months. Got her pr3/gn-nt. And you're calling this honesty?" His jaw tightened. "I'm trying to handle this with integrity. Most men would just cheat and lie. I'm giving you a choice." A choice. Stay and share my husband three days a week. Leave and name my pr!ce. I thought about all those nights he'd come home late, smelling like her jasmine perfume. All those wedding plans she'd helped me make while carrying his child. "I'm not divorcing you," I heard myself say. "You want me to step aside and make room for the two of you? Dream on." He grabbed his coat. "It's Wednesday. I'm going to her." "This is our wedding night." He looked at me like I was being unreasonable. "We had an arrangement. You agreed." Then he walked out. I stood there in my white dress, alone in a mansion that felt like a tomb. And I realized something—he thought his honesty was noble. He actually believed giving me a schedule made him the good guy. I grabbed the nearest vase. It was one she'd helped me pick out for the registry. The crash when it shatter
