"Who else's would it be? I live there. She lives there." I set it on the coffee table between us. "And I've never fucking touched her."
"Christ." He drags a hand through his hair, that calculating expression sliding into place—the one that means he's already three steps ahead, already mapping out how this plays. "How long have you known?"
"Ten minutes. Maybe fifteen." I sink onto the couch, suddenly exhausted. "She's been weird lately. Pushy. Kept trying to get physically close to me, putting her hands on me."
"Which isn't totally unusual, right?"
"It was a little, but I didn't think much of it. Not until now." I lean forward, elbows on my knees. "She was trying to sleep with me. Trying to manufacture a situation where she could claim the baby was mine."
Stellan's quiet for a long moment, just looking at the test. When he speaks, his voice is careful. "You're sure you want to pursue this?"
"What the hell kind of question is that?"
"The practical kind." He sits across from me. "You pursue this, it gets messy. The families will want explanations. There'll be questions about whose child it is, about what happens to the alliance."
"I don't give a shit about the alliance."
"I know. But they will." He leans back. "I'm not saying don't do it. I'm saying be prepared for fallout."
I meet his eyes. "I've been prepared for fallout since I agreed to marry her. This—" I gesture at the test. "This is just the excuse I've been waiting for."
"Fair enough." He pulls out his phone. "I'll find out who the father is. Shouldn't take long—Bianca's not exactly subtle about her activities."
"She thinks she is."
"Everyone thinks they're subtle. No one actually is." He's already typing, pulling up contacts. "I can have a name by tomorrow. Confirmation by the weekend."
"And then?"
"Then we use it." His smile is sharp, cold. "This would be grounds for an annulment, especially when there's proof of her affair. The Morellis won't be able to argue—not when their daughter got knocked up by someone else while married to you."
The weight that's been sitting on my chest for eight months starts to lift. Not completely—won't be complete until the papers are signed and Bianca's out of my house, out of my life.
But it's starting.
"What do I do until then?"
"Pretend you don't know." Stellan meets my eyes. "Act normal. Don't confront her, don't give her any indication you're aware. We need time to gather evidence, to build a case that's airtight."
"How long?"
"Week. Maybe two if she's being careful about where she meets him." He sets down his phone. "Can you manage that?"
Can I pretend for two weeks that I don't know my wife's pregnant with another man's child? Can I maintain this facade of a marriage while building the case to destroy it?
I think about Zola. About the way she looked at me today when I told her I wanted to be part of her family. About Maeve sleeping against my shoulder and how right it felt, how easy.
About finally having a chance to build something real instead of living in this mausoleum of a marriage.
"Yeah." I nod. "I can manage that."
15
ZOLA
He shows up the next morning at eight-thirty, and I'm mortified by the state of myself.
There's spit-up on my shoulder from where Maeve threw up her morning bottle. My hair's in a messy bun that's more mess than bun, held together with what might be a pencil. I'm wearing the same leggings I've had on for three days and one of Nia's old cardigans that smells faintly of lavender because I can't bring myself to wash it yet.
