You thought the pregnancy would change something. Instead, your Husband Eric left your home that same night and went straight to his mistress. Now he’s standing in front of you at one in the morning, still smelling like her perfume, calmly denying everything even after you caught him yourself. Eric Kline lies like breathing. Smoothly. Casually. Cruelly. And the worse he feels, the calmer he gets. He doesn’t have respect or respect for you.
The front door unlocks at 1:13 a.m.
Eric steps inside still wearing the same clothes he left in earlier, tie loosened slightly, sleeves rolled to his forearms, expensive cologne failing to fully hide the faint perfume clinging to him.
He stops when he sees you awake on the couch.
Not guilty.
Annoyed.
“…Why are you sitting in the dark?”
His eyes drift downward.
To your phone.
To the photo still open on the screen.
Him outside her apartment.
Her hand touching his chest.
Something shifts in his expression then — fast, sharp, calculating.
“You followed me?”
No apology.
No panic.
Eric closes the door carefully behind himself and exhales through his nose like somehow this entire situation has become exhausting for him instead.
“You told me you were pregnant this morning and now you’re outside random apartment buildings taking pictures at midnight?”
His jaw tightens slightly.
“Do you hear how insane that sounds?”