While I Carried His Baby, My Husband Chased His Ex

The Waldorf's ballroom smelled like white lilies and old money, which is to say it smelled like most of the rooms I'd spent my life in. Chandeliers threw gold light across two hundred faces I mostly recognized. I stood beside my husband in a navy gown I'd chosen because he once said he liked me in navy, and I watched him work the room like it was something he'd been training for his whole life.

"Dawson, you old shark," a silver-haired man laughed, clapping his shoulder. "Best gala Snyder's thrown yet."

"That's because I stole your caterer," Dawson said, and the man roared like it was the funniest thing he'd heard all year. Dawson's hand found the small of the man's wife's back next, guiding her toward the bar with a warmth that looked, from the outside, like the realest thing in the world.

I'd watched him do this a thousand times. Charm poured out of him like it cost nothing. I used to think I was lucky—married to a man everyone loved. It took me five years to understand that I was the only person he never spent that currency on.

His hand hadn't touched my back all night.

I sipped my champagne and let my smile settle into the place it always settled into at these things, comfortable as an old coat. Then the doors at the far end of the ballroom opened, and the temperature of the room changed in a way I couldn't have explained to anyone who asked.

A woman walked in wearing red. Dark hair, collarbones like blades, a mouth already curved like she knew people were about to look at her. And they did. The whole room turned, a field of sunflowers finding true north.

I didn't know her name yet. I only knew, watching my husband's face, that he did.

Dawson's grip on his glass tightened until his knuckles went pale. His jaw shifted. The polish dropped out of his voice mid-sentence, and he actually stopped talking to the man in front of him—stopped, mid-word, like someone had hit pause on him—and his eyes tracked her the entire length of the ballroom.

"Dawson?" the man said, amused. "You still with us?"

"Sorry," Dawson said. His voice had gone thin. "Sorry, I—excuse me a second."

He didn't excuse himself to me. He didn't look at me at all. He set his glass down on a passing tray and moved through the crowd with the kind of purpose he never once used walking toward me, in five years, in any room.

I stood there holding my champagne, and something in my chest went very quiet and very still, the way water goes still right before it freezes.

I didn't cry. I didn't make a scene. I smiled at Mrs. Halloway when she complimented my dress, and I said something about the flower arrangements to a board member's wife, and the entire time some cold, clear voice in the back of my head was narrating what I'd just seen like a stranger reading a verdict.

He was never looking for you. He was looking for her. He's been looking for her the whole time.

I didn't need to ask her name. Some sad, tired instinct already knew. Lilah.

The rest of the gala passed in a blur of practiced smiles and small talk I have no memory of generating. Dawson returned to my side eventually, and he made a joke about the auction items, and I laughed at the right moment, and neither one of us mentioned the four minutes he'd spent standing far too close to a woman in red.

We rode home in the town car in silence. He checked his phone twice. I watched the city slide past the window, streetlights strobing across his face, and he never once glanced over to see if I was all right.

I wasn't.

I didn't sleep that night. Around midnight I gave up trying, got dressed in the dark bathroom so I wouldn't wake him—not that he'd have noticed—and took a cab to Sophie's building on the Upper West Side. She opened the door in pajama pants and took one look at my face and didn't ask a single question. She just poured two glasses of wine, and when I finished mine too fast, she poured a third without a word.

"I always thought he was distant," I told her, somewhere around the fourth glass, my voice already loose and strange to my own ears. "I thought that's just how he was. Reserved. I told myself that for five years, Soph."

"Felicity—"

"He looked at her like she was the only person in the room." I laughed, and it came out wrong, cracked down the middle. "He's never looked at me like that. Not once. Not on our wedding day."

I don't remember much after that. I remember the tile floor of Sophie's bathroom, cold under my cheek. I remember her voice, far away and frightened, saying my name too many times in a row. I remember sirens.

The ER was fluorescent-bright and smelled like antiseptic and fear. A nurse drew my blood while I stared at a water stain on the ceiling tile shaped like nothing at all. Routine, they said. Standard workup for alcohol intoxication.

The doctor came back at three in the morning with a chart and a face arranged into careful neutrality.

"Mrs. Snyder," she said, "your bloodwork shows you're pregnant. Approximately six weeks."

I lay there on the cot and pressed one hand flat against my stomach, and the ceiling didn't have any answers for me either.

Dawson arrived forty minutes later, tie loosened, hair disheveled, a bouquet from the hospital gift shop crushed a little in his fist. Guilt was written across every line of his face—not for what I'd seen at the gala, I understood, but for being caught not paying attention.

"Felicity," he said, and for one unguarded second, standing in the doorway, he almost looked like he meant it. "Are you okay? Is the baby—"

"We're fine," I said, and I watched him exhale, relieved, already reaching for his phone before he'd even set the flowers down.

It buzzed twice in his pocket while he stood there. He didn't check it. Not yet. But I saw his hand twitch toward it anyway, an old reflex, and I understood something else in that moment, cold and complete: whatever performance was about to begin, it wouldn't be for me. It never had been.