At 4:30 in the morning, Emily Carter was holding her crying baby with one arm while stirring a pot of beans with the other when her husband walked into the kitchen and said, as casually as if he were asking for a glass of water:
“I want a divorce.”
The Whitmore family mansion in an upscale neighborhood outside Dallas was still silent.
The only sounds were the bubbling coffee pot, the skillet warming tortillas, and the tired whimpers of three-month-old Lily pressed against Emily’s chest.
Emily had been awake since 2:15 a.m.
First because the baby had colic.
Then because her mother-in-law, Eleanor Whitmore, had left a handwritten note on the marble counter:
“Breakfast ready before 6. No onions in Harold’s eggs. Smoothie for Vanessa. Strong coffee for Daniel. Don’t forget to iron his blue shirt.”
Emily read the note without surprise.
In that house, nobody asked for things.
They gave orders.
Daniel walked in with damp hair, a crooked dress shirt, and the unmistakable scent of expensive perfume that didn’t belong to Emily.
There was a faint shimmer of lipstick near his collar.
She noticed it.
And he noticed that she noticed.
But he didn’t feel an ounce of shame.
“Did you hear me?” he asked again.
Emily turned off the stove.
