After My Fiancé's Affair, I Realized He's Not the One

Byron's face had gone pale, but he recovered quickly, that practiced smile sliding back into place like a mask. "Of course not," he said, his voice just a little too bright. "I was just helping Tiffany with a project. Tiffany, this is Madison, my fiancée."

Tiffany looked up at me with wide brown eyes, her cheeks flushed pink. She was younger than I'd expected—maybe twenty-five, with that fresh-faced prettiness that made my five-months-pregnant self feel suddenly ancient. "Oh," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Hi."

I studied her face, searching for guilt, for shame, for some acknowledgment of what she'd been doing. But all I saw was surprise and something that might have been embarrassment. She glanced between Byron and me, her hand still frozen halfway to her computer mouse.

"Actually," Byron continued, his words coming faster now, "we were just finishing up. Tiffany was showing me the quarterly reports, and—"

"In the conference room?" I interrupted, nodding toward the glass-walled room behind them. Through the transparent walls, I could see the remnants of what was clearly a lunch for two—takeout containers, two coffee cups, and there, unmistakable on a small plate, half of a sweet pancake drizzled with maple syrup.

The same pancakes from the receipt. The ones he'd been ordering for a month.

Byron followed my gaze and his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. "We just... it's quieter in there. Better for concentrating."

I walked past them both, my heels clicking against the floor, and pushed open the conference room door. The smell hit me immediately—vanilla and maple syrup, sickeningly sweet. I set my lunch bag down on the polished table next to their intimate little spread and turned back to face them.

They hadn't moved. Byron stood frozen by Tiffany's desk while she stared at her computer screen like it might offer her an escape route. The entire office had gone quiet, the usual hum of conversation and keyboard clicking replaced by a tension so thick I could practically taste it.

"Come in," I said, my voice carrying clearly across the suddenly silent space. "Both of you."

Tiffany shot a panicked look at Byron, who gave her the slightest nod. They approached the conference room like prisoners walking to execution, Byron's jaw set in that stubborn line I knew so well, Tiffany's eyes darting everywhere except to my face.

I waited until they were both inside before closing the door behind them. The glass walls meant everyone could still see us, but at least they couldn't hear what was about to happen.

"So," I said, settling into one of the leather chairs and resting my hands on my belly. The baby chose that moment to kick, a sharp jab against my ribs that made me wince slightly. "How long has this been going on?"

"Madison, you're being ridiculous," Byron started, but I held up a hand to stop him.

"I'm not talking to you," I said without taking my eyes off Tiffany. "I'm talking to her."

Tiffany's face had gone from pink to white. She clutched her hands together in front of her, knuckles showing through her skin. "I don't know what you mean," she whispered.

"The pancakes," I said simply. "Sweet pancakes with maple syrup and whipped cream. Delivered every morning for the past month. To this office. For you."

The color drained completely from her face. Byron made a sound like he'd been punched.

"Madison—" he began again.

"No." My voice was sharp enough to cut glass. "You've had your chance to tell me the truth. Every morning for the past month when you kissed me goodbye. Every night when you came home and asked about my day. Every time you put your hand on my stomach and talked about our future together." I stood up, my chair scraping against the floor. "So now I want to hear it from her."

Tiffany's eyes filled with tears. She looked at Byron desperately, but he was staring at the floor, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

"I... we..." she stammered, then stopped, pressing her lips together.

"How long?" I asked again, and this time my voice was deadly quiet.

The silence stretched between us like a taut wire. Outside the glass walls, I could see our audience pretending to work while straining to catch any hint of what was happening. Janet from accounting had given up all pretense and was openly staring.

Finally, Tiffany spoke, her voice so soft I had to lean forward to hear her.

"Two months," she whispered. "It's been two months."