“Thanks for the compliment,” Eleanor said with a grateful nod, wrapping her hands around the cup for warmth. “Just the usual insomnia.”
Susan perched on the edge of the desk, swinging a leg in a comfortable clog. Her lips were pressed into a thin line of concern.
“Listen, my husband and I are heading up to the lake house this weekend. Grilling, fresh air, no hospital talk. You and Andrew should come. I haven’t seen him in months. Is he still buried in work?”
Eleanor frowned, shuffling papers on her desk. Her fingers trembled slightly.
“He’s busy. Some big project.”
“Always a big project,” Susan grunted. “Just like last year, when you found those texts on his phone.”
Eleanor met her friend’s searching gaze.
“They were work-related.”
“Right,” Susan said, unconvinced. “Remember how you two met? That New Year’s party where you spilled champagne all over him?”
Eleanor allowed herself a genuine smile, a rarity these days.
“He said I either had to buy him a new tie or marry him.”
“And you chose the more expensive option,” Susan finished their old joke. “Seriously, Ellie, you two need a break together. After all those procedures, the doctor’s appointments…”
Eleanor turned away. A sore subject. An image flashed in her mind: Andrew in a crisp white shirt, spinning her on a dance floor, his eyes full of admiration as she talked about her work. “You’ll save hearts, and I’ll build the equipment to do it,” he’d said. Then came their big dream—their own medical supply company.
“You know, sometimes I think he never forgave me for…” Eleanor started, then trailed off.
“For not being able to have a baby?” Susan asked softly. “It’s not your fault, and he should…”
“Dr. Hayes, they’re waiting for you in the case conference!” a young nurse called out, interrupting them.
Eleanor stood, squaring her shoulders. Here, within the hospital walls, she was herself again—not a barren wife, but a respected professional. On her way out, she paused at the sink in the corner of her office. With the practiced motion of a surgeon, she lathered her hands, counting to thirty under her breath—a technique she used to calm her nerves before a difficult procedure. Inhale, exhale, another slow breath. The professional discipline helped her in life as much as it did in the operating room.
The day flew by in a familiar rhythm: rounds, clear directives, confident conversations with patients, flawless paperwork. An elderly patient squeezed her hand and whispered, “Thank you, Doctor. You’re the only one I trust.” Here, Eleanor felt needed. Here, everything had purpose and order. Unlike her marriage.
Eleanor got home just after seven. The sound of her key in the lock echoed in the empty apartment. A familiar note from Andrew was stuck to the hall mirror: “Late night, don’t wait up.” The handwriting was rushed, careless. Bending down to take off her shoes, she noticed his suit jacket draped over a chair—he’d forgotten it in his hurry. Her fingers brushed against the expensive fabric. She froze. She had never gone through his pockets. It was a line she wouldn’t cross, a doctor’s respect for privacy. But now, something compelled her.
With the practiced efficiency of a medic searching a patient’s clothes for ID, she checked the pockets. A dry-cleaning receipt. Car keys. A receipt from a jewelry store. Eleanor slowly unfolded the crumpled paper. A sapphire necklace. The price made her heart skip a beat. The date of purchase was yesterday. Their anniversary had been a month ago; he’d given her a perfunctory bouquet. Her birthday was three months away. He hadn’t given her anything like this in years. Her mouth went dry. A wave of nausea washed over her. With trembling fingers, she unbuttoned the tight collar of her blouse. She took a deep breath, like she did before surgery.
“Just the facts,” she told herself, using her clinical approach. First, gather the symptoms, then make the diagnosis. Eleanor walked to the window. She turned on a desk lamp and looked at the receipt again. Necklace. Sapphires. A large sum. Yesterday.
The ringing phone shattered her analytical calm. She jumped, nearly dropping it. Her mother-in-law.
“Ellie, dear, how are you? Andrew isn’t picking up,” Carol Peterson’s voice was laced with concern, but held its usual authoritative edge.
“Everything’s fine, Carol,” Eleanor said, leaning against the wall, clutching the damning receipt in her other hand. “He’s in an important meeting.”
“Late again?” Disapproval dripped from her mother-in-law’s voice. “A man should be home at a decent hour. I stopped by yesterday to bring you two some dinner. No one was home. And you know, Ellie, you’ve looked so pale lately. Are you getting enough rest?”
“I’m a doctor, Carol. I’m fine.”
“A doctor for everyone else, maybe. You two should take a vacation. Reconnect.” She paused meaningfully, then added with emphasis, “I’d like to see some grandchildren before I get too old.”
Eleanor gripped the phone so tightly her knuckles turned white. Seven years of trying. Four rounds of IVF, thousands of injections, tests, and appointments. And always, this same conversation.
“We’re fine,” she said evenly, her eyes fixed on the jewelry store receipt. “Just busy with work. I’m sorry, I have to go.”
After the call, Eleanor stood by the living room’s picture window for a long time. The city lights blossomed below, and somewhere out there was Andrew. With whom? The lit windows of neighboring buildings formed a mosaic of other people’s lives. Suddenly, all the little details of the past few months clicked into place: the new clothes, the late nights, his distraction, the password on his phone, which he always kept face down.
Eleanor didn’t sleep that night, listening for the sound of approaching cars. Each time tires crunched on the pavement below, her heart hammered. When the lock finally turned at 3 a.m., she pretended to be asleep. Andrew smelled of alcohol and a foreign perfume—a cloying, sweet scent. He carefully lay down on the very edge of the bed, avoiding any contact. That careful distance felt like a greater betrayal than if he had ignored her completely.
The next morning, after Andrew left, Eleanor called in sick for the first time in two years, claiming a migraine. Susan was worried—Eleanor was never sick. But right now, she didn’t care. At nine, she parked across the street from her husband’s office. The gray business-park building, with their company logo on the facade, was the legacy built from her inheritance. Her hands trembled on the steering wheel.
“What am I doing?” the thought flashed. It was absurd. A wife spying on her husband. She, a cardiologist accustomed to direct conversations about life and death, was sitting in her car like a private eye. The glass walls of the first floor offered a view of the reception area. The receptionist, Olivia, a young blonde she vaguely remembered from company parties, was animatedly explaining something to a courier, gesturing dramatically. Eleanor watched the girl toss her hair, flirtatiously batting her eyes. A familiar office creature. A knot of dread tightened in her stomach.
Eleanor turned on the radio. Soft music filled the car. She took a sip of water from a bottle. Her throat was raw. Andrew arrived just after nine. His silver BMW, purchased last year (“We have to project a certain image, Ellie”), pulled smoothly into the director’s parking spot. Even the way he got out of the car had a different energy. He adjusted his jacket, squared his shoulders, smoothed his hair, as if preparing for a date, not a workday. Phone already to his ear, a confident stride, a smile. Her husband seemed like a stranger.
“This man has slept next to me for 15 years,” she thought. The idea seemed preposterous. She sat in the car for three hours, watching people come and go. She got out a few times to stretch her legs. Bought a coffee from a nearby cart. The bitter liquid burned her tongue. She mentally promised herself to drink less coffee, and immediately broke the promise.
Eleanor noted how professionally detached she was, observing the scene almost as if she were monitoring vital signs in the ICU. Distancing—a defense mechanism honed over years. Around noon, the glass door of the company swung open, and Andrew emerged, accompanied by a tall brunette. A perfect haircut, red lipstick, a slim pencil skirt. She looked confident, self-assured. At least ten years younger than Eleanor. They walked too close for colleagues. They didn’t touch, but they existed in a shared, invisible bubble, walled off from the rest of the world. A woman’s intuition screamed: they were lovers.
The woman laughed, throwing her head back to reveal a long, elegant neck adorned with a delicate chain. Andrew was looking at that neck with an expression that said he wanted to kiss it. It was the same look he once reserved only for Eleanor. They got into his car and drove away. Something inside Eleanor snapped. She exhaled slowly, realizing she’d been holding her breath. Nausea rose in her throat. Images flooded her mind: Andrew kissing this woman; Andrew buying her the necklace; Andrew lying to her, to Eleanor: “I’ll be late at work.”
Her first impulse was to call him, to scream, to make a scene. But years in surgery had taught her to act with a cool head, even when she was bleeding internally. With trembling fingers, she dialed Susan. Each ring hammered in her temples.
“Susan,” her voice broke. She cleared her throat. “Can you find out who works in Andrew’s PR department? Young, tall brunette. Very stylish, red lipstick.”
Susan was quiet for a moment. The sounds of the hospital—beeping machines, distant voices—came through the line.
“Victoria?”
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