My husband's infidelity partner is my best friend

The bile surged before my eyes even opened.

I bolted out from under the duvet, stumbling blindly toward the en-suite bathroom. My knees buckled halfway there, and I caught myself against the cold drywall, dragging my nails down the paint to keep from collapsing.

"Tracy?"

Bob appeared in the doorway, barefoot, his hair rumpled. He rushed across the tile and gripped my elbows.

"Don't touch me," I croaked, dry-heaving over the porcelain sink.

"Baby, you’re burning up," he said, pressing a cool palm to my forehead. His brows knit together in theatrical distress. "Look at how pale you are. When did this start?"

I spat into the basin and rinsed my mouth with tap water. "An hour ago. My stomach won't settle."

"That’s it. Put on a sweater." He reached for the hand towel and dabbed at my lips. "I’m taking you to St. Jude’s right now."

"You have a meeting with the zoning board at nine."

"Screw the board," Bob insisted, his voice heavy with righteous devotion. "My wife comes first. Always. Let me grab the keys."

He turned toward the nightstand, but before his fingers brushed the brass keychain, his phone buzzed violently against the mahogany wood.

Bob glanced down. His posture went completely rigid.

"Aren't you going to answer that?" I asked, watching him from the bathroom threshold.

He swiped the screen, turning his back to me. "Speak."

A muffled, frantic voice came through the receiver. I couldn't make out the words, but Bob’s shoulders tightened into sharp angles.

"When?" Bob demanded in a low bark. "Right now? Did you call the inspectors?"

He pinched the bridge of his nose, his voice dropping into a breathless murmur before he ended the call with a curt tap. When he turned back to me, the color had drained from his cheeks.

"Tracy, there's a catastrophe downtown," he said, rushing to pull his trousers on. "The harbor retaining wall cracked. The city is threatening to revoke our building permits by noon."

"You said you were taking me."

"I have to go, Tracy. If we lose this contract, the firm goes under." He kissed my cheek in a hurried, frantic peck that smelled faintly of mint mouthwash. "Take a cab to the urgent care clinic on Fifth. Charge it to my card. Call me the second the doctor sees you, okay?"

"Bob—"

"I love you! I'm sorry, baby!"

The front door slammed shut before I could button my coat.

***

The sterile smell of antiseptic made my throat burn.

"Well, Mrs. Miller," Dr. Alvarez said, lowering the chart onto his desk. "Your blood work explains the nausea."

I rested my trembling hands on the edge of the examination table. "Is it an ulcer? The stress lately has been unbearable."

"Not an ulcer." Dr. Alvarez smiled gently over his spectacles. "Your beta-hCG levels are sitting at twenty-four hundred. You're roughly five weeks pregnant."

The room seemed to tilt. "Pregnant?"

"Healthy and right on schedule. I'm prescribing prenatal vitamins and an antiemetic for the morning sickness."

"A baby..." A choked sob broke from my chest. Tears blurred the diplomas hanging on the wall. "Are you certain?"

"The lab results don't lie," he chuckled, handing me a printout. "Congratulations."

I walked out of the clinic in a daze, clutching the paper to my ribs. Five weeks. The timing was undeniable. Despite the nightmare of yesterday, despite the dirtiness lingering in our bedroom, a life was growing inside me. A fresh start. A reason for Bob to truly change.

Across the street, a boutique window displayed miniature knitted garments. Without thinking, I stepped inside and picked up a tiny pair of white woolen baby booties.

"Gift wrap?" the cashier asked.

"No, thank you," I whispered, holding the box against my chest like a shield. "I'm giving them to my husband right away."

I stepped out onto the sidewalk, fishing my phone from my purse to dial Bob's number.

A sharp glare of sunlight reflected off a black Audi sedan parked twenty yards down the street, right outside an upscale digestive health clinic.

The license plate was unmistakable: *BM-774*.

Bob's car.

I lowered the phone. My heart hammered against my ribs, heavy and jagged. The harbor site was six miles south in the industrial district. Why was his car here?

The glass doors of the digestive clinic slid open with a soft hiss as I crossed the street.

The waiting room was quiet, decorated in muted tones of beige and bamboo. At the far end of the hallway, near the private consultation rooms, two familiar figures stood near a potted palm.

Bob's suit jacket was unbuttoned. His arm was wrapped securely around Emily’s waist, anchoring her to his side.

Emily wore an oversized beige trench coat, her face pale, her petite hand clutching Bob's lapel.

"I can't drink that barium contrast," Emily whimpered, leaning her cheek against Bob’s shoulder. "It makes me throw up, Bob. You know how sensitive my stomach is."

"I know, sweetheart," Bob cooed, his voice laced with a gentle patience I hadn't heard in years. He smoothed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "I asked the specialist for an ultrasound instead. You won't have to swallow anything nasty."

"The doctor said I can't take any stress right now," she whispered, looking up at him with wide, tearful eyes. "He said if my gastritis flares up again, I could end up hospitalized. Bob... you won't leave me, will you? You won't let her kick me out of your life?"

Bob pulled her tighter against his chest, kissing the crown of her head.

"I won't leave you," Bob murmured softly. "I told you yesterday, didn't I? Everything I do is for us. Just let me handle Tracy a little longer."

"She suspects nothing?"

"Not a single thing," Bob said with a quiet, confident chuckle. "She thinks I'm downtown moving mountains for our future. Take a breath, Em. I've got you."

The little box containing the baby booties slipped an inch down my fingers before I caught it, squeezing the thin cardboard until the edges caved in.

A scream built in my throat—hot, wild, and furious. I wanted to tear down the corridor. I wanted to throw the lab report into his lying face and shred Emily’s hair from her scalp.

Instead, an icy stillness settled into my bones.

I didn't yell. I didn't step forward.

My lips curved into a flat, humorless line. I took one step back onto the plush runner carpet, then another, slipping through the sliding doors without making a sound.

***

The sun had set by the time Bob came home.

I sat motionless on the vanity stool in our bedroom, staring into the dark glass of the three-way mirror. The ultrasound appointment slip lay face down inside the nightstand drawer, locked away beneath my passport.

The bedroom door clicked open.

Bob loosened his silk tie, his face painted with an expression of deep, heroic exhaustion.

"God, what a nightmare," he groaned, tossing his leather briefcase onto the armchair. "Concrete trucks backed up for blocks, the city inspector breathing down my neck... I haven't eaten all day."

He walked up behind me, resting his hands on my shoulders, his reflection looming over mine.

"How did your clinic visit go, Tracy?" he asked, rubbing his thumbs into my nape. "Did the doctor give you something for that stomach flu?"

I met his eyes in the mirror. They were clear, untroubled, completely devoid of shame.

"Just a minor bug," I said evenly. "Nothing to worry about."

"Good." He leaned down and pressed his lips to my temple. "I was terrified for you all morning. You know you're my whole world, right?"

"Of course I know, Bob."

He smiled, satisfied, and walked into the closet to change his shirt.

I stared at my pale reflection in the glass, my fingers resting quietly over the flat warmth of my belly.

"Bob," I whispered to the empty mirror. "How much more have you lied to me about?"