For a second, I genuinely thought I was hallucinating.
I had only met her once in person, though I had seen enough photos after that to burn her face permanently into my brain. She had been at a charity gala in October, standing beside my husband in a black silk dress, her hand resting on his arm just a little too familiarly while he introduced her as “a donor relations consultant.” I had smiled, because wives smile in public when they don’t yet have proof. Later, I found the proof anyway—hotel receipts, deleted texts, a second phone Ethan thought I would never discover.
And now she was in my hospital room.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, but my voice came out thinner than I wanted.
She shut the door behind her with a hard click.
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