Eleanor continued walking.
Behind her, the billiard-room door remained open.
And for the first time in five years, she did not look back to see whether Adrian was following.
CHAPTER TWO
THE ROOM WITH THE CITY LIGHTS
The bedroom was silent when Eleanor entered.
Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city glittered beneath the dark October sky. Thousands of lights illuminated the towers and streets, each one marking a home, an office, a restaurant, or a stranger moving through a life she knew nothing about.
From this height, the city looked beautiful.
Almost peaceful.
Eleanor knew better.
She had lived in the penthouse for three years, long enough to understand that beauty could conceal loneliness as effectively as darkness concealed danger.
The room was enormous, decorated in shades of ivory, gold, and charcoal. A wide bed stood beneath an upholstered headboard. Silk pillows rested against a pale gray comforter, and a vase of white roses stood on the bedside table.
Adrian had ordered the roses that morning.
She remembered receiving them with a message.
For my beautiful wife. Can't wait to see you tonight.
She had read those words over breakfast and smiled.
She had placed the flowers in water herself, trimming their stems carefully so they would last longer.
Now she stood beside the bed, staring at them.
The roses looked perfect.
Their petals had not yet begun to curl. Their fragrance filled the room with a sweetness that suddenly made her feel sick.
She turned away.
Her handbag slipped from her hand and landed on the mattress.
For several seconds, she simply stood there.
She had expected anger to arrive in a great, uncontrollable wave. She had expected herself to scream, cry, throw things, or collapse.
Instead, she felt strangely empty.
It was as if her mind had stepped outside her body and left her standing in the room while it tried to understand what had happened.
She approached the window.
Below, headlights moved through the streets like rivers of white and red. Somewhere, a siren sounded and faded into the distance.
Eleanor placed her palm against the cool glass.
She had once believed that marrying Adrian would protect her from the uncertainties of the world.
He was successful, respected, and decisive. He knew how to make investments, negotiate contracts, and persuade difficult people to accept his terms. He seemed to possess an answer for every problem.
When her mother became ill two years earlier, Adrian had handled the arrangements with remarkable efficiency. He had found specialists, paid bills, and made sure Eleanor never had to worry about money.
She had loved him for that.
She had loved him for so many things.
He remembered the names of her favorite books. He ordered her preferred tea without asking. He could recognize her footsteps in the hallway and tell from the way she closed a door whether she was tired, angry, or sad.
Sometimes, when she woke in the middle of the night, she would find him watching her.
"What?" she would whisper.
"Nothing," he would say, smiling. "I just like looking at you."
She had treasured those moments.
Now she wondered whether she had been foolish to treasure them.
Perhaps the truth was more complicated.
Perhaps Adrian had loved her once.
Perhaps he still loved some part of her.
But love that demanded one person endure endless humiliation was not the kind of love she wanted her child to learn.
Eleanor lowered her hand from the window.
The baby moved.
This time, the movement was unmistakable: a gentle flutter followed by a firmer nudge beneath her ribs.
She gasped.
For months, she had waited for the moment when she would begin to recognize her child's movements without needing a doctor to confirm them. She had imagined sharing every kick with Adrian, laughing when the baby became restless during dinner, and placing his hand against her belly whenever their child seemed particularly determined to announce its presence.
Instead, she was alone.
She pressed both palms against her stomach.
"Hello, little one," she whispered.
Her voice broke.
For the first time since discovering the affair, she began to cry.
The tears came without warning, spilling down her cheeks as she bent forward and held herself together. She tried to breathe quietly, as if someone might hear her and judge her for the sound of her grief.
But there was no one in the room.
No one to impress.
No one who needed her to be composed.
She cried for the husband she thought she had married.
She cried for the future she had planned.
She cried for the version of herself who had believed that patience could protect a marriage from betrayal.
And she cried for the child who would arrive in a world already complicated by the choices of adults.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
The words frightened her.
She did not know whom she was apologizing to.
The baby?
Herself?
The little girl she had once been, who had dreamed of growing up, falling in love, and building a home where nobody ever had to wonder whether they were wanted?
She pressed her forehead against the window.
"I'm so sorry."
The city continued shining.
No light changed.
No building moved.
The world did not stop simply because her own had collapsed.
After a long time, Eleanor straightened.
She wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand and looked around the room.
The bed.
The flowers.
The photographs.
The wardrobe filled with clothes Adrian had bought for her.
Everything seemed to belong to a woman she barely recognized.
She approached the bedside table and picked up the framed photograph resting beside the lamp.
It showed Adrian holding her on a beach during their honeymoon.
The wind had blown her hair across her face, and she was laughing while he attempted to brush it away.
She remembered the afternoon clearly.
They had spent hours walking along the shoreline, collecting shells and talking about the future. Adrian had told her that he wanted three children, a house with a garden, and a dog that would sleep beside the fireplace.
Eleanor had laughed and told him that three children sounded exhausting.
"Then two," he had said. "But at least one daughter."
"Why a daughter?"