Chương 8
My voice changed.
“Did you sleep with Lauren Pike?”
Samuel shut his eyes.
Gavin inhaled.
Then Bernice’s voice sounded faintly in the background.
“Gavin?”
He did not answer her.
I waited.
“Did you?”
“No.”
The denial was quiet.
Almost believable.
Then he added, “Not the way you mean.”
My stomach turned.
“There is only one way I mean.”
“Maddie.”
“What does that sentence mean?”
“She and I got too close.”
“How close?”
“It was complicated.”
I laughed, and the sound frightened me.
“There it is.”
“It wasn’t an affair.”
“Did you kiss her?”
Silence.
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
My vision blurred.
“One time?”
“No.”
Samuel moved toward me.
I raised a hand to stop him.
“How many times?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“What was it like?”
“I was under pressure.”
The baby kicked sharply.
I pressed a hand to my ribs.
“So was I.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Maddie, please.”
“Did you sleep with her?”
“No.”
The answer came stronger this time.
“I swear to you.”
I closed my eyes.
I wanted to believe that distinction mattered.
It did not.
Not enough.
“Did company money pay her?”
“She did legitimate design work.”
“For what?”
Silence again.
Then Gavin said, “Stonebridge.”
I opened my eyes.
“What is Stonebridge?”
He spoke so softly I almost missed it.
“A house.”
I looked at Samuel.
His eyebrows drew together.
“What house?”
“A model property.”
“For what?”
“I was going to build independently.”
“With money from our company?”
“I was going to pay it back.”
“You took our money to start a business you planned to control.”
“I built that company too.”
“Ours.”
“I built it with my hands.”
“And I built it with my money.”
His restraint cracked.
“There it is.”
“What?”
“The thing you’ve always believed.”
“What thing?”
“That I’d still be swinging a hammer for somebody else if you hadn’t rescued me.”
I opened my mouth.
Nothing came.
Because somewhere beneath everything ugly, there it was.
A bruise I had never noticed.
His pride.
My money.
My grandmother’s house.
My controlling share.
Every time I had thought I was building with him, Gavin had been keeping score.
“I never said that.”
“You never had to.”
He sounded tired now.
“I walked into your house after our wedding.”
“You asked Bernice to move in.”
“Because she had nowhere else.”
“I agreed.”
“And every room still belonged to you.”
“That isn’t fair.”
“No.”
His laugh was small and bitter.
“It isn’t.”
For one moment, he sounded so human that grief pushed through my anger.
Then I looked at Samuel’s folder on the table and remembered the message about waiting until I was exhausted after childbirth.
“You could have told me you wanted something of your own.”
“You would’ve wanted sixty-eight percent of that too.”
“You never gave me the chance.”
“And you never gave me the chance to be the one with something you needed.”
I sat completely still.
There were a thousand answers.
None of them mattered enough.
“Did Paisley know about Stonebridge?”
“Yes.”
“Bernice?”
A pause.
“Some of it.”
“What does some mean?”
“She knew I was building something separate.”
“Did she know you planned to get on the deed?”
“Maddie.”
“Did she?”
“Yes.”
The word landed quietly.
I looked toward the apartment window.
Traffic moved through the intersection below.
A woman crossed carrying groceries.
Someone honked.
Nothing stopped.
“Thank you,” I said.
“For what?”
“For finally answering one thing.”
His voice tightened.
“Don’t do this.”
“I have to go.”
“Madeline.”
I ended the call.
The room stayed silent.
Then Samuel reached for the legal pad.
“Write down everything you remember while it’s fresh.”
I stared at him.
“My husband just admitted he kissed another woman.”
“I heard.”
“And you want notes.”
“Yes.”
I wanted to hate him for that too.
Instead, I pulled the pad toward me.
My hand shook so badly the first line was unreadable.
I tried again.
Samuel went to the kitchen and gave me privacy without leaving the room.
Halfway through the page, another tightening gripped my abdomen.
I stopped writing.
This one hurt.
Not terribly.
Enough.
I looked at the clock.
Ten minutes later, another came.
Samuel saw my face.
“What?”
“I think I need my doctor.”
He was beside me immediately.
“Call.”
The third contraction came while I was speaking to the nurse.
She asked how far apart they were.
I told her.
“Come in,” she said.
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“I’m only thirty-four weeks.”
“That is exactly why I want you evaluated.”
Samuel took my bag.
I stood slowly.
My phone buzzed on the table.
A text from Gavin.
Please don’t destroy everything before I can explain.
I looked at it once.
Then another contraction tightened across my belly, and for the first time all day, Gavin became the second most important thing in my life.
The hospital smelled like disinfectant, coffee, and something fried from a cafeteria that should have been closed by then.
Samuel drove too carefully.
Every red light felt personal.
By the time we reached labor and delivery, the contractions had settled into an ugly rhythm, close enough together that the triage nurse stopped making small talk.
She put a monitor around my belly and another around my waist.
“Any leaking fluid?”
“No.”
“Bleeding?”
“No.”
“Baby moving?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
She glanced at Samuel.
“Dad?”
“No.”
He looked offended for the second time that day.
“I’m her attorney.”
The nurse blinked.
“That is a new one.”
“He’s also a family friend.”
“That helps.”
Samuel sat in a plastic chair near the curtain and folded his hands over his legal folder like he had brought litigation into church.
I stared at the ceiling tiles.
Another contraction built.
The nurse watched the monitor.
“Breathe normally.”
“I am.”
“You’re holding your breath.”
“I’m breathing internally.”
She smiled.
“That doesn’t count.”
The contraction eased.
My phone vibrated inside my bag.
Samuel looked at it.
“Do you want it?”
“No.”
It vibrated again.
Then again.
May you like
The nurse adjusted the monitor.
“Stress can irritate the uterus.”
