Betrayed Hearts

ChapterThree, Dinner for Three

***Dinner for Three***

The shrill ringing of my phone drags me out of sleep.

I fumble for it on the nightstand, my head pounding from last night's wine and tears. When I see the name on the screen, my heart stops.

Hubby.

Timothee. He's calling me. He never calls me.

I answered so fast I nearly dropped the phone. "Hello?"

"Hey." His voice comes through, calm and smooth. Like nothing happened last night. Like he didn't reject me and walk out and leave me crying on the floor.

God, I missed this. His voice in the morning. It used to be the first thing I'd hear every day. Now he's always gone before I wake up—in his study or already out the door. And when I call him during the day, it's always "Let's talk later" or "I'm busy."

"Hello? Amber, are you there?"

I realize I've been sitting here silent, just drinking at the sound of his voice, like I'm starving for it.

"Yes! Sorry, I'm here. Good morning." My voice comes out too eager, too desperate. I can't help it.

"How was your night?" he asks.

Fine? He's asking how my night was? After what he did?

"It was... fine," I lied.

There's a pause. Then: "Let's have dinner together tonight."

My breath catches. Dinner. Together. The two of us.

"Really?" The joy bursts out of me before I can stop it. "Yes! That sounds lovely!"

He hangs up without saying goodbye.

But I don't care. I'm beaming, clutching the phone to my chest. Dinner. With my husband. An actual date. Maybe last night was just stress. Maybe he's realized what he's been doing to us. Maybe—

I look around the bedroom. The sheets are twisted and scattered. My pillow is still damp from crying myself to sleep. The toy I threw across the room is lying in the corner.

I was such a mess last night.

But that was last night. Today is different. Today, Timothée wants to have dinner with me.

I practically jumped out of bed and threw myself into my morning routine. I clean the bedroom, humming as I smooth the sheets. I shower and actually do my hair properly instead of throwing it in a ponytail. I even put on makeup—just light and natural, the way he used to like it.

His mother was already in the dining room when I brought out breakfast. I'm in such a good mood I don't even care about her usual coldness.

"Good morning, Mother!" I say brightly.

She looks up at me like I've grown a second head. Then she just... humphs. Doesn't say a word. Just humphs and turns back to her phone.

Whatever. I serve her breakfast with a smile and sit down to eat mine, my mind already racing ahead to tonight.

What should I make for dinner? Something special. Something that shows effort and love. His favorite dishes—the beef wellington he loved on our honeymoon, maybe that chocolate he always asked for.

I spent the entire afternoon in the kitchen. Cooking, baking, humming to myself like I haven't done in months. Years, maybe. The house fills with delicious smells, and I can't stop smiling.

I wish I could make time move faster. I keep glancing at the clock. 2 PM. 3 PM. 4 PM.

By 5 PM, I'm dressed. I chose my red dress—the one that hugs my body just right, the one he used to say made me look like sin. I curled my hair until it fell in soft waves down my back. I put on the perfume he bought me for our first anniversary, the one I haven't worn in over a year, because what's the point when he doesn't get close enough to smell it?

But tonight. Tonight is different.

I position myself in the living room where I can see the driveway through the window. The grandfather clock on the wall becomes my enemy, each tick echoing through the quiet house.

5:30 PM. 6 PM. 6:30 PM.

My excitement starts mixing with nervousness. He said dinner. He didn't say what time. Maybe he got held up at work. Maybe there was traffic.

7 PM.

Then I hear it. The sound of his car pulling into the driveway.

My heart leaps into my throat. I jump up, smoothing my dress one more time, checking my reflection in the hallway mirror. I look good. I look beautiful. He has to see it.

The front door opens.

I rush toward it, my heels clicking on the marble floor, a huge smile already on my face.

"Timothee! I'm so glad you're—"

I freeze.

He's not alone.

Jane steps in behind him.

Jane. My best friend is Jane. The one who was on video call with me last night while I cried. The one who told me to leave him, to cheat on him, to give up.

What is she doing here?

"Jane?" I move toward her, concern pushing past my confusion. "What happened? Are you okay? Did something happen with that neighbor from last night?"

She doesn't quite meet my eyes. "I'm fine, Amber. Everything's fine."

But she's acting strange. Off. Her usual warmth is gone, replaced by something I can't read.

"Okay, well..." I turn to Timothee, trying to salvage this. I reached for his hand. "Should we—"

His hand is ice cold in mine. Stiff. He doesn't squeeze back and doesn't even acknowledge the touch.

Something's wrong. Something's very wrong.

But I push it down. I've made this beautiful dinner. We're going to sit down together like a family. It'll be fine.

"Let's eat," I say, my voice a little too bright. "I made all your favorites."

The three of us sit at the dining table. I spent an hour arranging everything perfectly—candles, flowers, the good china. It should feel romantic. Special.

Instead, it feels like a funeral.

They eat. I can tell the food is good by how they're devouring it. But neither of them says a word. Not "this is delicious" or "thank you" or anything. Just the sound of forks on plates and painful, suffocating silence.

I can't take it anymore.

"Jane," I say, forcing a laugh that sounds fake even to my ears. "It's getting pretty late. When are you heading out? You know it's not safe to drive after dark, and—"

I'm trying to be subtle. Trying to give her an out so I can be alone with my husband. So we can actually talk, actually connect, and actually fix whatever's broken between us.

"I know you came to check on me," I continued, "and that's so sweet, really. But I need some time with Timothee right now. Husband and wife stuff, you know?"

Jane doesn't move. She just looks at me with this expression I've never seen on her face before. Almost... pitying. But there's something else there too. Something that makes my stomach twist.

Then she turns to Timothee.

"Do you need her, Timothee?" she asks. Her voice is soft. Innocent. Like she's asking about the weather.

I blink. "What?"

"What does that mean?" I look between them. "What's going on?"

Timothee clears his throat. He still won't look at me. He's staring at his plate like it's the most fascinating thing in the world.

"About that, Amber." His voice is flat. Emotionless. "That's actually what I wanted to talk to you about."

My heart starts pounding. Something's coming. Something bad.

"Jenny is pregnant," he says.

The words don't make sense at first. They just... float there in the air between us.

Jenny? Who's Jenny?

"I... what?" I shake my head. "I don't understand. Who's—"

And then it clicks.

Jenny.

Jane.

The nickname he apparently has for her.

My best friend.

I look at her. Really look at her. And I see it now—the slight swell of her stomach under her loose blouse. How did I not notice before?

"For how long?" The words scrape out of my throat.

"Two years," Jane—Jenny—says. Not apologetically. Just... matter-of-fact. Like she's telling me what time it is.

Two years.

Two years of him not touching me. Two years of rejection and toys and crying myself to sleep.

Two years of him being with her.

My best friend.

The room starts spinning. I grip the edge of the table to keep from falling out of my chair.

"I'm sorry, Amber," Jane says, but her face doesn't look sorry. "We fell in love. It just... happened."

"It just happened?" My voice sounds strange. High-pitched. Hysterical. "You're my best friend! How could you—you pretended to care about me! You told me to leave him! You—"

"I did want you to leave him," she says simply. "It would have made things easier."

Easier. For them.

All those times she asked about him. Where he was. When he'd be home. I thought she was being supportive.

She was checking in on her lover.

All those times she told me to cheat, to move on, to give up.

She wanted me out of the way.

Jane suddenly stands up and moves behind Timothee's chair. Her hands grip his shoulders. Possessive. Claiming him.

"I'm sorry, Timothee," she says, her voice going soft and vulnerable. "But she's scaring me. The way she's yelling... it's not good for the baby."

The baby.

His baby.

Not mine.

Hers.

"Jenny, it's okay," Timothee says, and his voice—his voice is so gentle. So tender. The way he used to talk to me. "She's not going to hurt you. She's harmless."

Harmless.

That word lands like a punch to the gut.

He turns to me then. Finally, he looks at me. And there's nothing in his eyes. No love. No regret. No guilt. Just... nothing.

"Amber, don't you dare scare Jenny. Ever. Do you understand?"

I can't breathe. Can't think. This isn't real. This can't be real.

"So you call her Jenny now," I hear myself say. My voice sounds far away. "You used to call me Amy. When we first got married, you called me Amy. But you stopped. You started calling me Amber. That was two years ago, wasn't it?"

He doesn't answer. He doesn't have to.

"That's why you won't touch me." The pieces are falling into place, each one cutting me deeper. "You won't sleep with me because—"

"Jenny wouldn't like it if I cheated on her," he says. Calmly. Like, it makes perfect sense.

I laugh. I can't help it. It bubbles up from somewhere dark and broken inside me. I laugh and laugh until tears are streaming down my face, and I can't tell if I'm laughing or sobbing anymore.

Cheating on her. On her. On my best friend. While he's married to me.

"This isn't happening," I whispered. "This is a nightmare. I'm going to wake up and—"

Footsteps on the stairs.

His mother appears in the dining room doorway.

I lunge toward her, my last thread of hope. She's never liked me, but she's still his mother. Still family. Surely she'll—

"Mother! Timothy is—he's been—"

"I know, dear."

Her voice stops me cold.

She walks past me like I'm not even there and goes straight to Jane. Wraps her in a warm hug.

"How are you feeling, darling? The baby?"

"We're both fine, Mrs. Cameron," Jane says, smiling. Actually smiling. "Thank you so much for your support."

"Of course! You've done wonders for our company. My son is lucky to have you." She pulls back, beaming at Jane like she's a daughter. The daughter she never treated me like.

I'm still standing there, frozen, watching this. Watching his mother—who made my life hell for three years—embrace my husband's pregnant mistress.

"You knew," I breathe. "You knew the whole time."

She finally looked at me. "Of course I knew. Someone had to help them keep their relationship running smoothly while you played house."

The floor drops out from under me.

Everyone knew. His mother. Jane. Probably everyone in their business circle. Everyone except me.

The stupid wife.

Timothee stands up. Brushes off his pants like we've just finished a business meeting instead of destroying my entire life.

"About the living arrangements," he says. "You'll need to move to the guest room. Jenny will be moving into the master bedroom."

"What?"

"You can stay in the house," he continues, like he's being generous. Like he's doing me a favor. "You can keep doing the housework. Cooking. Cleaning. You don't have anywhere else to go anyway. After we got married, we moved here to my city. You left your whole life behind, remember? No family. No friends except Jane."

Except Jane.

Who's pregnant with my husband's baby?

"Wife to maid," I hear myself say. "You're demoting me from wife to maid in my own home."

"It's not your home," his mother says coldly. "It's his. Everything is his. You brought nothing to this marriage except a pretty face, and clearly even that wasn't enough to keep him interested."

Something inside me shatters.

I scream.

I don't even know what I'm screaming. Just raw sound, raw pain, everything I've been holding in for two years erupting out of me at once.

Then I'm running.

Past them. Past their shocked faces. Out the front door into the night.

I run until my heels break. Until my lungs burn. Until I can't see through my tears anymore.

The wind whips my hair around my face, and I keep running, running, running into the darkness.

Away from that house.

Away from that life.

Away from the man I loved and the friend I trusted and the family I thought I had.

I run until I can't run anymore.

And when I finally stop, gasping and sobbing on some random street corner, I realize the truth:

I have nothing.

I am nothing.

I am completely and utterly alone.