I forced myself to breathe evenly as I scrolled through Orion's Instagram feed. My fingers trembled slightly as I swiped through his carefully curated posts—each one a perfect slice of his public life, each one a carefully constructed lie.

"Looking forward to a productive week ahead! #CorporateLife #MondayMotivation"

The caption beneath the photo made my stomach turn. There he was, smiling confidently at the camera, his tailored suit emphasizing his broad shoulders, his office window revealing the city skyline behind him. The photo was dated three days ago—when he'd told me he was at a conference in Chicago.

I studied the image more carefully, my corporate training kicking in. What else was he hiding in plain sight?

"Katty?" Orion's voice drifted from the kitchen. "Are you coming to bed?"

"In a minute!" I called back, not taking my eyes off the screen.

I zoomed in on the corner of the photo, where the edge of a building was visible through his office window. The angle was odd—not one of the skyscrapers I recognized from his usual view.

I opened another photo, posted two weeks earlier.

"Team lunch at Meridian. Great discussion about our Q3 strategy. #WorkFamily"

This one showed Orion at a restaurant table surrounded by colleagues. But what caught my eye was the background—a glimpse of a hospital entrance through the window.

I zoomed in again, my heart pounding.

"Mercy Maternity Center."

The words were partially obscured by a passing pedestrian, but I could make them out clearly enough.

Mercy Maternity Center. Where Carol had given birth.

"When was this posted?" I whispered to myself, checking the date stamp.

Three weeks ago.

Which meant Carol had already had the baby. The child I'd seen in my... previous life... was already born.

I closed my eyes, fighting back a wave of nausea. The timeline was shifting in my mind. In my memory—my death—Carol's son had been at least three years old. But now, with three years until that day, the baby was newborn.

Orion had been planning this for years.

I opened my laptop and pulled up his work calendar, which synced with our shared account. I'd never paid much attention to it before—too consumed by my own work and then, later, by the all-encompassing project of getting pregnant.

Now I saw what I'd missed.

Regular blocks of time marked simply "client meeting" or "off-site" that didn't align with his actual client schedule. Times when he'd claimed to be working late but hadn't logged into our shared cloud drive.

And phone calls—dozens of them from the same number, usually in the evenings or early mornings.

"Who are you calling, Orion?" I murmured, jotting down the number.

I pulled out my own phone and dialed it, letting it ring until it went to voicemail.

"Hi, this is Carol. Leave a message and I'll call you back."

Her voice was light, happy—completely unaware that she was speaking to the wife of the man she thought was hers alone.

I ended the call without leaving a message.

---

By evening, I had mapped out Orion's absences over the past year. There was a pattern—every Thursday evening, every other Tuesday, occasional weekends. All coinciding with his "late meetings" or "business trips."

I needed a drink.

Not at home, where Orion might see me. Not at any of our regular spots, where someone might recognize me.

I found myself downtown, pushing through the door of a dimly lit bar I'd never visited before. The kind of place with no windows and low lighting—perfect for disappearing.

"Rough day?" The bartender asked as I slid onto a stool.

"You have no idea," I replied, my voice steadier than I expected.

"What can I get you?"

"Something strong. Something that will make me forget."

He raised an eyebrow but didn't press further. "Coming right up."

The drink arrived—dark amber liquid with a twist of lime. I didn't ask what it was. I just drank.

One became two. Two became three.

With each drink, the knot in my chest loosened slightly. The pain was still there, but the sharp edges dulled, blurring into something more manageable.

"Another," I told the bartender, pushing my empty glass toward him.

"You sure about that?" He eyed me warily.

"Positive." I pulled out my credit card. "And keep them coming."

By closing time, I was seeing double. The bar stools swam before my eyes as I tried to stand. My phone buzzed with a text from Orion.

"Where are you? I'm going to bed."

I didn't bother responding.

Outside, the night air hit me like a slap. I hailed a cab somehow, giving the driver my address mechanically.

---

"Mrs. Lockwood? Katty?"

I squinted against the harsh fluorescent lights of the examination room. Dr. Bergman's concerned face swam into focus above me.

"Are you alright? You smell like you've been drinking."

"I'm fine," I insisted, though my tongue felt thick and unwieldy. "Just a couple of glasses of wine."

"With your medication?" His eyebrows shot up. "That's not advisable."

I waved away his concern. "I need to know if the transfer worked."

He sighed, setting down his clipboard. "We'll run the blood test as planned, but I'm concerned about your state right now. Is everything okay at home?"

Something about his genuine concern broke through my carefully constructed walls. Tears welled up in my eyes before I could stop them.

"No," I admitted, my voice cracking. "Nothing is okay."

Dr. Bergman pulled up a chair beside me instead of standing behind his desk. "Do you want to talk about it?"

I looked at him—really looked at him. He was handsome in a different way than Orion. Where Orion was all sharp angles and perfect features, Dr. Bergman had kind eyes and a gentle expression that made you feel like you were the only person in the room.

"He's cheating on me," I blurted out, the words tumbling from my lips before I could stop them. "Orion. My husband."

"I'm so sorry," he said softly, his hand reaching out to touch mine.

I didn't pull away. Instead, I turned my palm up to meet his, my fingers curling around his as if clinging to a lifeline.

"Nobody knows," I continued, the words pouring out now. "Nobody except me. And I don't know what to do."

Dr. Bergman's thumb traced small circles on my wrist, sending unexpected shivers up my arm. His touch was gentle, clinical even—but there was something else there too. Something that made my heart race in a way that had nothing to do with the alcohol.

The examination room was too bright, too sterile. I squinted against the harsh fluorescent lights overhead, my head still spinning from last night's drinks. Dr. Bergman—Jude—stood before me, his white coat crisp against his shoulders, his eyes filled with concern that seemed to cut through my alcohol-induced haze.

"Katty," he said softly, setting down his clipboard. "Let's get you comfortable for the blood test."

I nodded, my throat dry. As he reached for my arm to check my vitals, his fingers brushed against my skin, sending an unexpected jolt through me. I looked up sharply, catching something in his eyes—something that made my breath catch.

He cleared his throat and stepped back slightly. "The alcohol in your system might affect some of the test results."

"I'm sorry," I whispered, though I wasn't sure what I was apologizing for—the drinking or the effect it might have on his professional duties.

"Don't be." His voice was gentle. "But I am worried about you."

I looked down at my hands, twisted together in my lap. "No one's worried about me, Jude. Not really."

The silence stretched between us, heavy with unspoken words. When I finally looked up, he was watching me with an intensity that made my heart skip.

"I'm here," he said simply.

Something broke inside me then—a dam holding back months, maybe years of loneliness and pain. I stood up suddenly, swaying slightly.

"Katty—"

"I need to feel something," I said, my voice barely audible. "Something real."

Before he could respond, I closed the distance between us. My hands found his face, drawing him down toward me. For a moment, he resisted—his body tense, his hands gripping my wrists.

"This is crossing a line," he murmured against my lips.

"We've already crossed it," I whispered back.

His restraint crumbled. One hand slid to the small of my back, pulling me against him as his mouth claimed mine. The kiss was nothing like I'd expected—hungry, almost desperate, as if he'd been holding back for far too long.

"The couch," I gasped between kisses, gesturing toward the small leather sofa in the corner of the examination room.

Jude hesitated for only a second before leading me there, his arms never leaving me. We collapsed onto the leather surface, my body fitting against his as if we'd been made for each other.

"Katty," he breathed against my neck, his hands sliding under my blouse. "We should stop."

"We can't," I replied, arching into his touch. "Not now."

The clinical setting only heightened the illicit thrill of what we were doing. The examination room—a place of sterility and professional distance—transformed into something intimate and forbidden.

His hands were everywhere, reverent and urgent at once. Each touch erased a little more of Orion's betrayal, replacing it with something warm and real.

"Tell me what you need," Jude whispered, his eyes dark with desire.

"Just this," I answered, pulling him closer. "Just for a little while, make me forget."

Afterward, we lay tangled together on the narrow couch, both of us breathing hard. Reality crashed back like a wave—the sterile room, the discarded medical supplies, the professional boundary we'd just shattered.

Jude's arm tightened around me as if reading my thoughts. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "I shouldn't have—"

"Don't apologize," I interrupted, turning to face him. The guilt in his eyes was palpable, but there was something else there too—a tenderness that made my chest ache.

He brushed a strand of hair from my face, his fingers lingering against my cheek. "This was wrong."

"Maybe," I admitted. "But it felt right."

Silence fell between us again, but this time it was different—charged with the aftermath of what we'd done and the confessions I suddenly needed to make.

"He's cheating on me," I said quietly, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. "Orion."

Jude's body tensed beneath mine. "Your husband?"

I nodded, tears welling up unexpectedly. "I found out... I think I've known for a while. He has someone else. A child."

"Katty—" Jude's voice broke as he pulled me closer, one hand stroking my hair. "I'm so sorry."

The tears came then, hot and relentless. Years of trying to conceive, of needles and hormones and disappointment—all while Orion was building a family with someone else.

"He doesn't even try to hide it anymore," I sobbed against Jude's chest. "Not really."

Jude held me tightly, his chin resting on top of my head. "What are you going to do?"

I pulled back slightly, wiping at my tears with the back of my hand. "I don't know. I can't prove anything yet."

Something shifted in Jude's expression—a resolve forming behind the guilt. He sat up, pulling me with him, his hands steady on my shoulders.

"I can help you," he said firmly.

I stared at him, trying to process his words through my emotional fog. "What?"

"Collect evidence." His jaw tightened. "I have connections. People who can help."

"You don't have to do that," I whispered, though part of me desperately wanted him to.

"This isn't just about... what happened between us." His eyes met mine, sincere and determined. "This is about you deserving better."

The tenderness in his voice broke something inside me all over again. I leaned forward, resting my forehead against his. "Why would you do this for me?"

His hand came up to cup my face, thumb brushing away a tear. "Because you matter, Katty. And what he's doing is wrong."

I closed my eyes, letting his words sink in. For so long, I'd felt invisible—first to Orion, then to the world as my identity narrowed to "infertile wife." But here was Jude, seeing me, choosing me.

"I don't want to wait," I said suddenly, a new resolve hardening within me. "I want evidence now. I want to know everything."

Jude nodded slowly. "Then we'll get it."

He pulled me into his arms again, holding me as if I might break. And maybe I would—but for the first time in years, I felt something other than despair.

Hope.

Or perhaps something more dangerous.

As Jude's heartbeat steadied beneath my ear, I made a silent promise to myself. This time would be different. This time, I wouldn't be the one who died—metaphorically or otherwise.

This time, I would be the one who survived.