Chapter 2: I'm Just Going to Disappear

Evelyn's POV

Morning light pours through the kitchen windows. I flip bacon in the pan, watching the edges curl and crisp. The coffee machine hums behind me. My grip on the spatula is tighter than it needs to be.

I didn't sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I heard it again. Ennuyeux. Boring.

Footsteps on the stairs. Marcus appears in his suit, hair still damp from the shower. He slides his arms around my waist from behind.

"Morning, darling. Smells amazing."

His lips find my neck. I keep my eyes on the bacon, flipping each piece with careful precision.

"Just breakfast. Nothing fancy."

"Everything you make is special." He turns me around, cups my face in both hands. "God, I love you. I missed you so much these past few months."

These months. While I was in bed recovering, bleeding and broken, where exactly were you? Who were you missing?

"I'm here now."

The smile I give him feels like it might crack my face in half. He doesn't notice.

"Let's go to the Hamptons this weekend. Just us. No work, no calls." His thumb brushes my cheek. "I want to make up for lost time."

"Sounds perfect."

Perfect. The word sits heavy on my tongue. How does he do this? How does he hold me like nothing's wrong, kiss me like he means it, after calling me boring to his friends? After fucking someone else while I cried over our dead baby?

I plate the bacon. My hand shakes slightly. I force it steady. Marcus is already on his phone, scrolling through market updates.

"Got a meeting at nine. Probably won't be back until late." He kisses my forehead, tastes his coffee. "I'll grab something at the office."

"I'll leave dinner in the oven anyway."

"You're the best."

The door clicks shut behind him. I stand alone in the kitchen, staring at the food I haven't touched. My stomach turns at the thought of eating.

Rachel texts me an address downtown. Old building, fourth floor, no name on the door. Inside, a man in his fifties sits behind a desk covered in file folders. Michael Torres. Former FBI. Rachel swears by him.

"Your friend says you need help."

"I need to know the truth." I slide into the chair across from him. "About my husband."

He pushes a form across the desk. I sign without reading it.

"What exactly do you want to know, Mrs. Kane?"

"Everything. Who she is, how long it's been going on, where they meet. What he tells her." My voice comes out flat, controlled. "I need proof."

"And when you have it?"

"Then I'll know what I'm dealing with."

"Retainer's ten thousand. Cash. You don't get it back."

I pull an envelope from my bag. He counts it quickly, nods.

"How long?"

"Three days, maybe less. Cheaters get sloppy." He opens a file. "Most of them think they're smarter than they are."

"Photos, videos, anything digital. Bank records if you can access them."

"You want me on both of them?"

"Just him. She's not the problem."

Something shifts in his expression. He's probably used to crying wives, women falling apart in his office. I'm not falling apart.

"I'll be in touch, Mrs. Kane."

"Email only. Use the address I gave you."

I leave without looking back.

Three days. I play my part. The grateful wife. The woman who believes everything he says.

Dinner that night, I watch Marcus tell some story about work. Candlelight flickers between us. He reaches for my hand, smiling like he means it. I smile back, feel absolutely nothing.

"You're quiet tonight."

"Just happy we're doing this." I squeeze his hand. "It's nice."

I'm thinking about how good you are at lying. Were you always this good, or did she teach you something new?

The next afternoon we walk through Central Park. Leaves crunch underfoot. His hand wraps around mine, warm and solid. I want to pull away. I don't.

"Remember when we used to do this every Sunday? Before everything changed?"

"I remember."

"We should start again. I miss this. I miss us."

Us. Which us? The one I thought we were, or the performance you've been giving for seven years?

On the third morning, his phone buzzes on the nightstand. Unknown caller. He frowns, declines it.

"Who's calling this early?"

"Just work." He flips the phone face down. "Nothing important."

"At six in the morning?"

"Investors don't sleep, you know that." He kisses my temple. "Go back to sleep."

But he doesn't. He gets up, takes the phone into the bathroom. Water runs. His voice is low, muffled. Ten minutes later he comes back out, face carefully blank.

That afternoon I sit in a coffee shop on Madison. The messenger arrives exactly when Torres said he would. Heavy manila envelope. My hands are steady as I open it.

First photo: young woman, blonde, pretty. Twenty-two. Sienna Brooks. Stanford grad. Works at Marcus's art foundation.

Second photo: them outside an apartment in Tribeca. His hand on her waist, her body pressed against his. Kissing like they have all the time in the world.

Third photo: balcony somewhere in Connecticut. Both in bathrobes, wine in hand. She's on his lap, laughing at something he said.

Receipt: necklace, thirty thousand. Shipping address matches the Tribeca place.

The report lays it all out. Fourteen months. Two, three times a week. Rent: fifteen thousand monthly. Paid by Marcus through a shell account. Her salary: sixty thousand a year.

Fourteen months. While I was bleeding. While I was taking shots, trying to fix what broke inside me. While I was crying myself to sleep wondering if my body would ever work right again. He was with her. Buying her things. Making her laugh. Making her feel special.

My fingers grip the photo edges until they bend. But my face stays blank. Wall Street taught me that much. Never break in public.

Last page, handwritten note from Torres: "Subject calls target 'entertainment.' Wife is 'obligation.' Need more?"

I put everything back in the envelope. Text him: "That's enough. Thank you."

Then I open my calendar. Next Tuesday. Dr. Morrison.

The hospital waiting room smells like disinfectant and fear. Pregnant women sit around me, hands on their bellies, faces glowing. I flip through a magazine without seeing it.

Three years ago I was one of them. Excited, terrified, ready. Then the bleeding started. Then the pain. Then nothing.

"Evelyn Hart?"

Dr. Morrison's office is bright and clean. She smiles over my chart.

"Everything looks great, Evelyn. Hormone levels are perfect. You're healthy. You can try again whenever you're ready."

"So there's nothing wrong?"

"Nothing at all. The miscarriage was unfortunate, but it doesn't mean it'll happen again." She closes the file. "You're young, you're healthy. I'd say your chances are very good."

But I'm not trying again. Not with him. I just need to know I'm not broken. That when I leave, I leave whole.

"Thank you."

I take the report, walk toward the elevators. Then I hear it. His voice. Low and sharp, nothing like the way he talks to me.

I stop. Step back around the corner. In the glass reflection I can see them. Marcus and a blonde girl. Sienna.

"Marcus, I'm pregnant." Her voice cracks. "Twelve weeks. I took three tests."

"Fuck." Long silence. "We need to take care of this. I'll pay for everything, best clinic in the city."

"Take care of it?" She's shaking. "This is our baby. Don't you want it?"

"I can't have complications right now. The IPO is three months out. Investors are watching everything."

"So I'm a complication? Our baby is a complication?"

"Evelyn comes first. Always. You knew the rules."

"But you said you love me! You said she's boring, that I make you feel alive."

"I love my wife. You're just entertainment, Sienna. Don't get confused."

My hand finds my phone. I open the recorder. Fingers shaking but I press the button. Record.

"Entertainment?" Her voice breaks. "I gave you everything. I quit school, I moved into that apartment you picked, I did everything you wanted."

"And I paid for all of it. Generously." His voice turns cold. "Don't act like you didn't benefit."

"I'm keeping it."

"No, you're not." Threatening now. "You take care of it, or you lose everything. The apartment. The job. The money. All of it."

"How can you be so cold?"

"I'm being practical. This is business. It always was."

Entertainment. That's all I was too, wasn't it? Just a longer investment. The trophy wife while she played the mistress. And here he is, at the same hospital where I lost our baby, telling another woman to kill his.

I stop recording. Turn away. They don't see me. Their voices fade as they move into an exam room.

In the taxi back home, I stare at my phone. The audio file sits there, waiting.

I open my email. Type slowly, carefully:

"Professor Foster,

I hope you're well. It's been three years since I left environmental science for Wall Street. I've been thinking a lot about the path I didn't take, and I'm wondering if there's still a spot on the Amazon climate research project.

I'm ready to come back to what matters. I can start immediately if you'll have me.

Best regards,

Evelyn"

My finger hovers over send. Just for a second.

I press it.

My phone rings. Marcus calling.

Three rings.

I decline.

I'm not going to fight you, Marcus. I'm just going to disappear.