“How much?” he asked.
“A lot. Marcus, it won't stop. The pain… it feels like the third time.”
“Did you call the emergency line?”
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“The paramedics are seven minutes out,” I wept into the speaker, my knuckles turning bone-white against the floor:
“Marcus, please. I think we’re losing our baby. I need you here. I can't do this alone again.”
A sudden swell of cheers surged through his end of the phone, followed by a woman’s soft, familiar laugh—high, melodic, and possessive.
Vivian.
Vivian Cross.
The thirty-four-year-old Vice President of Global Strategy at Hale Dynamics. The woman who had spent twenty-three international business trips sharing private Gulfstream cabins with my husband over the past twelve months. The woman whose corporate housing voucher had quietly routed through a subsidiary to purchase a six-and-a-half-million-dollar condominium three blocks from our front gates.
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“Marcus, darling, they’re ready for the toast,” Vivian’s voice floated through the receiver, close enough that she had to be resting her chin against his shoulder.
