The reporters are already in the lobby when I step out of the elevator. "Mrs. Durham! Mrs. Durham, is it true your husband has three children with another woman?" I freeze. My Hermès bag slips down my shoulder, and for a moment, I can't breathe. Can't think. Can't process what this man just asked me. Three children? "Mrs. Durham, how long have you known about Savannah Yoder?" Savannah. Of course. It's always been Savannah. I knew about her. Everyone in our circle knows about her. The maid's daughter who somehow captured the heart of Clarence Durham, heir to the Durham pharmaceutical empire. The woman my husband supposedly loved before our families arranged our marriage six years ago. But three children? My heels click against the marble floor as I push through the crowd, keeping my face blank. Neutral. The way Mother taught me. Never let them see you bleed, Heather. Never give them the satisfaction. "No comment," I manage, my voice steadier than I feel. My driver, Marcus, is already opening the car door. I slide into the back seat, and the door closes, muffling the shouted questions. The soundproofing in this Mercedes has never felt more necessary. "Where to, Mrs. Durham?" Marcus asks gently. He's been with me since before the wedding. He knows. "Home," I whisper. But which home? The penthouse where I've spent six years sleeping alone while my husband works late? The estate where we host charity galas and pretend to be the perfect couple? Or my parents' house, where I could finally admit that my marriage is a sham? My phone buzzes. Clarence. I stare at his name on the screen. We need to talk, the message reads. Now? Now he wants to talk? Not during the past six years when he left our bed cold every night? Not when he spent weekends "at the office" while I attended functions alone? Not when I celebrated my twenty-eighth birthday with our housekeeper because my husband was too busy to come home? Another text: I can explain. I almost laugh. Almost. Instead, I text back: The penthouse. One hour. Then I open my browser and search for Savannah Yoder. The results make my stomach turn. There are photos. Recent ones. Clarence holding a little girl with dark curls, maybe four years old. Clarence pushing a stroller with twins inside. Clarence kissing Savannah's forehead while she cradles an infant. An infant. The date stamp on the photo is from three weeks ago. Three weeks ago, I was planning our anniversary dinner. Choosing the wine. Wearing the dress he never noticed. Waiting for him to come home at midnight, smelling like her perfume. I scroll further. The articles call her his "longtime love." They mention how their families' different social statuses kept them apart. How tragic. How romantic. Star-crossed lovers forced into separation by society's rigid class structure. And me? I'm the obstacle. The wife who trapped him in a loveless marriage. The society princess who stole him away from his true love. Never mind that I didn't choose this marriage either. Never mind that I was twenty-two and terrified when my father told me I'd be marrying Clarence Durham to merge our families' business interests. Never mind that I tried to be a good wife, a loving partner, even when my husband looked through me like I was invisible. The car pulls up to our building. More reporters. More cameras. More questions I can't answer because I don't have the answers myself. Marcus clears a path. The doorman ushers me inside quickly. The elevator ride to the penthouse feels eternal. When I step inside our home—my home, I've lived here alone for six years—everything looks the same. The same pristine white furniture. The same abstract art Clarence's mother chose. The same vase of fresh orchids our housekeeper replaces every Monday. But everything is different now. I pour myself a glass of wine. Château Margaux. The bottle Clarence was saving for a special occasion. Well, this seems special enough. I'm on my second glass when I hear his key in the lock. Clarence walks in looking disheveled. His tie is loose. His hair is messy. He's been running his hands through it, the way he does when he's stressed. Good. He should be stressed. "Heather," he says. Just my name. Like it explains everything. Like it fixes anything. I take another sip of wine and study the man I married. He's still handsome. Tall, broad-shouldered, with those Durham family cheekbones that make society mothers swoon. But I'm looking at a stranger. "Three children," I say calmly. "You have three children with her." He closes his eyes. "Yes." "Were you ever going to tell me?" "I... I don't know." At least he's honest about that. "The twins are three years old," I continue, my voice eerily steady. "Which means you got her pregnant while we were married. While I was planning your thirtieth birthday party. While I was sleeping in our bed, waiting for you to come home." "Heather—" "And the baby. The infant in those photos. How old?" "Six months." Six months. I mentally calculate. He conceived that child while we were on our so-called second honeymoon in Santorini. The trip I thought might save our marriage. The week I actually believed he was trying. He was sleeping with both of us. "Say something," Clarence pleads. "Yell at me. Throw something. Just... say something." I set down my wine glass very carefully.