The Husband Returns

Elena forced her eyes away from his wrist. The pale strip of untanned skin against the golden brown of his forearm was a scream in the quiet room, but Marcus didn't seem to notice her stare. He was too busy re-buttoning the cuff, wincing slightly as the stiff cotton chafed against what Elena now realized wasn't just a tan, but a tender, fresh sunburn.

"You're right," she said, her voice sounding thin and brittle in her own ears. "We should get you upstairs. You must be exhausted."

She needed him out of the dining room. She needed him away from the sideboard where the iPad lay hidden beneath a precarious stack of magazines, its screen likely still glowing with the evidence of his infidelity.

Marcus sighed, a sound of performative fatigue. "Exhausted doesn't cover it. The client wanted to meet at six a.m. Brutal."

He reached for his glass of water, his hand brushing within inches of the *Architectural Digest* stack. Elena’s breath hitched. If he moved them, if he saw the white Apple box or the device itself, the game was over before she even knew the rules.

"I made up the bed with the flannel sheets," she lied, stepping between him and the sideboard. She placed a hand on his chest, feeling the warmth radiating through his shirt. It was the heat of a man who had spent the last week absorbing UV rays, not fighting off a Midwestern blizzard. "Go up. I'll lock up down here."

He smiled, that easy, boyish grin that had charmed her five years ago. "You're the best, El. I don't deserve you."

*No,* she thought, the word tasting like bile. *You don't.*

She watched him turn and head for the stairs, his garment bag slung over one shoulder. He moved with a loose-limbed grace that didn't match his story of a grueling business trip. He walked like a man who had just had a massage.

Once his footsteps faded on the landing, Elena grabbed the iPad. She didn't dare turn it on again. She marched into the pantry, shoved the device to the back of the highest shelf behind the oversized roasting pan she used once a year, and piled bags of quinoa in front of it. It wasn't a permanent solution, but it would buy her the night.

She turned off the lights and followed him upstairs.

In the master bedroom, the atmosphere was thick with the humidity of the en-suite shower. Marcus was already out of his suit, standing in his boxers by the walk-in closet.

Elena stopped in the doorway.

Without the shirt, the lie was grotesque. His back was a map of his betrayal. The tan lines were stark white against the toasted bronze of his skin. His shoulders were peeling slightly, pink and raw.

He was rummaging through his dopp kit, tossing items onto the vanity. A travel-sized toothpaste. A razor. And then, he pulled out a small, blue velvet box.

He turned, hiding the box behind his back, his expression shifting into a mask of sheepish affection.

"I didn't want to wait until Christmas," he said softly. "I saw this in a... a little vintage shop near the Magnificent Mile. It made me think of your eyes."

He stepped forward and presented the box.

Elena took it. Her hands were numb. She flipped the lid.

Inside sat a sapphire pendant. A teardrop of dark blue stone surrounded by tiny diamonds.

It was the twin.

She had seen the receipt on his dresser three days ago. Two units. One for the wife. One for the sister. She had just seen the other one—the original one—resting against Seraphina’s collarbone in a photo taken yesterday in the Caribbean.

"It's beautiful," Elena said. She didn't have to fake the tremor in her voice.

"Let me put it on you."

He took the necklace, his fingers brushing the nape of her neck. He was standing close, too close. The scent of him—vanilla and coconut—was overwhelming now, drowning out the room. He kissed the sensitive spot behind her ear, and Elena flinched, her body rejecting the touch before her mind could command it to be still.

Marcus pulled back, frowning. "El? You're jumping out of your skin."

"I told you," she said, clutching the cold stone of the pendant. "The hormones. I'm sensitive to everything right now."

He nodded, accepting the excuse because it was easier than looking at the truth. He turned back to the mirror, wincing as he stretched his arms overhead. He caught his own reflection, the angry red flush across his traps where the sun had hit hardest.

He grabbed a bottle of heavy lotion from the counter and began slathering it onto the burn, his eyes meeting hers in the glass.

"God," he muttered, rubbing the white cream into his sun-damaged skin. "Chicago was freezing."