Six weeks later
Two pink lines.
I stare at the plastic stick until my vision blurs, bathroom tiles cold under my bare feet. The fluorescent light hums overhead like a witness too indifferent to care.
Three tests. Three identical results. The universe has a sick sense of humor.
After two years of temperature charts and hormone injections and monthly devastation, my body finally decided to cooperate. With either my emotionally constipated husband or a stranger at a masked ball.
Like some twisted fairy tale written by someone who hates me.
My phone buzzes against the marble counter.
Tessa's name flashes across the screen.
"Please tell me you have good news," she says before I can speak. "I've had the day from hell and I need someone else's life to be going better than mine."
"I'm pregnant."
Silence.
Silence so long it seems suffocating.
Then: "I'm sorry, I think I just had a stroke. Say that again."
"Three tests, Tessa. Three identical results."
"Oh my God." Her breath catches. "Elara, is this good news? Are we celebrating or panicking? I genuinely cannot tell."
"I don't know."
I sink onto the edge of the bathtub, the porcelain rim biting into my thighs.
"Caspian and I had sex in his office the day after the masquerade. He told me he wanted to try again, and I believed him."
"So the baby could be his."
"Or it could belong to whoever was wearing that mask. The timing works either way. I have no idea whose child I'm carrying."
You did this. You let a stranger touch you and now you don't even know whose baby grows inside you.
"Okay, stop spiraling." Her voice goes firm. "You need to tell Caspian. Whatever happened at that party, he deserves to know his wife is pregnant. He said he wanted to try again, right? Maybe this is exactly what you two need."
"You really believe that?"
"I believe you need to find out. Call him right now, while you still have the courage. Then call me back and tell me everything."
She hangs up before I can argue.
My hands shake as I dial Caspian's number.
The pregnancy test sits on the counter, those two pink lines burning into my peripheral vision like an accusation.
How will you tell him you're pregnant when you can't even promise the child is his?
It rings once. Twice. Then a voice answers, but not his.
"Caspian's phone."
Female. Breathy. A perfect crystal bell that I've heard before, laughing at a restaurant table while her fingers rested on my husband's arm.
I can't speak. Can't breathe.
Muffled sounds on the other end. The rustle of sheets. A laugh that curls through the speaker like poison.
Then Caspian's voice, distant but unmistakable: "Who is it?"
"No one," the woman says. "Wrong number."
The line goes dead.
I stand frozen in the bathroom doorway, phone still pressed to my ear, listening to silence.
My reflection stares back from the mirror: pale, hollow, holding a pregnancy test that just became a bomb.
My phone buzzes again. Tessa.
"Well? What did he say?"
"A woman answered." The words come out flat. "Genevieve Ashford. The one from the dinner. She was in bed with him. I could hear sheets moving, and he asked who was calling, and she said 'no one' and hung up."
"What?"
Tessa's voice cracks with disbelief.
"No. That doesn't make sense. You just told me he's been bringing you flowers, coming home for dinner like an actual husband. He's been doing all that while sleeping with her? The woman his parents practically threw at him?"
"Apparently the romance was just another performance." A laugh tears out of me, jagged and bitter. "God, I'm such an idiot."
But aren't you just as guilty?
"Elara, this is insane. Are you absolutely sure it was her?"
"I sat across from her at that dinner. I know her voice, Tessa."
"That manipulative, two-faced bastard." Tessa's shock is shifting into fury now. "Six weeks of pretending to be a devoted husband, and it was all a lie? What was he even doing? Hedging his bets?"
"He looked me in the eyes and told me he wanted to make things right."
The anger builds in my chest, hot and righteous.
"He said vulnerability was hard for him, that he'd been wrong to shut me out after the miscarriage. I stood there crying, Tessa. Crying with gratitude that my husband was finally seeing me again."
While you carried the secret of what happened at the masquerade. While you wondered every day if the man who touched you was really him.
"I was grateful for breadcrumbs." My voice rises. "For basic human decency. While he was splitting his attention between me and the woman his mother handpicked to replace me."
"Elara—"
"Six weeks of coming home for dinner like he gave a damn, and the whole time he was laughing at me behind my back. Making me feel special while he crawled into that bitch’s bed."
But you have secrets too. You have guilt that chokes you every time you look in the mirror.
My phone buzzes with a text notification. I pull it away from my ear to read: Won't be home tonight. Don't wait up.
"What is it?" Tessa asks. "What's happening?"
"He just texted me."
If you leave now, you never have to tell him.
I read the words again, and something inside me catches fire.
"He's not coming home tonight. Too busy with Genevieve, I assume. Maybe they're comparing tennis swings."
You never have to confess what happened at the masquerade.
"That's it. I'm coming over right now."
You never have to watch his face when he realizes the child might not be his.
"No. You're not coming here. I'm coming to you."
I'm already moving, pulling a bag from the closet.
"The offer you made at O'Malley's. Working for your father's firm. Getting out of Caspian's shadow. Is that still on the table?"
"Of course it's still on the table, Elara. It will always be on the table."
"Then I'm taking it tonight."
I shove clothes into the bag with hands that tremble.
"What do you need me to do?"
"Clear your spare room." Cash from the safe. Passport. Car keys. "I'll be there in an hour."
"I'll have tea waiting. And divorce lawyers on speed dial."
"Tessa." I stop, clutching the phone. "Thank you. For never giving up on me."
"That's what best friends do, sweetheart. Now get out of that mausoleum and come home."
I hang up and stand in the closet, surrounded by silk blouses and designer dresses that never felt like mine.
The anger still burns. It's real and justified and I cling to it like armor.
But underneath, the guilt coils tighter with every breath.
Maybe if you're not here, it will pass. Maybe distance will quiet the voice that whispers you're not innocent either. Maybe by the time you have to face him again, you'll know what to say.
I zip the bag closed and walk out without looking back.