The maître d’ approached with that look—pity barely masked by professional courtesy. “Another glass of champagne, Mrs. Montgomery?” I shook my head, forcing a smile that felt like cracked porcelain. “No, thank you. I’m sure my husband will be here any minute.” We both knew it was a lie. The anniversary dinner reservation had been for 7:30 PM. The delicate watch on my wrist—a wedding gift from Chris—now read 9:17. Around me, Boston’s elite dined in intimate pairs, their laughter and conversation forming a backdrop that only amplified my solitude. The candle between the two place settings had burned down significantly, wax pooling on the pristine tablecloth. The small gift box wrapped in silver paper sat untouched beside my plate, corners perfectly aligned the way Chris preferred things. Beside it lay the cream-colored envelope containing my handwritten letter—words I’d rewritten a dozen times, trying to breathe life back into our marriage. I reached for my phone, tucked discreetly in my clutch beneath the table. No missed calls. No apologetic texts. Just silence—the kind I’d grown accustomed to over three years of marriage. My finger hovered over Chris’s name, but pride kept me from calling. Again. Instead, I opened Instagram, a habit born of masochism more than hope. The first post stopped my breath. There he was. My husband, his strong arm wrapped protectively around Jamie Collins’s slender waist as he guided her through the sliding doors of Boston General’s emergency entrance. Her head rested against his shoulder, face contorted in apparent pain. The caption read: *Chief Montgomery to the rescue! Even America’s Sweetheart @JamieCollinsRN needs a hero sometimes. #NightShiftDrama #BostonGeneral* The timestamp: 7:15 PM. Fifteen minutes before he was supposed to meet me. I zoomed in on the image, studying the details like a pathologist examining tissue. Chris’s expression—concern etched across his handsome features, but something else too. A tenderness I hadn’t seen directed at me in… I couldn’t remember how long. Jamie’s designer blouse, perfectly pressed despite her “sudden illness.” The way her manicured hand clutched at his lapel. The comments scrolled beneath: *OMG they’re so cute together!* *Wasn’t tonight his anniversary? Awkward…* *Poor Evelyn Parker always waiting somewhere LOL* I set my phone down with trembling fingers, heat rising to my cheeks. Everyone knew. The entire hospital staff, their social circles, probably half of Boston’s upper crust—all watching this slow-motion car crash that was my marriage. The waiter approached again, this time without words as he cleared away the untouched champagne flute and the bread basket that had gone stale. His eyes flicked to the gift and letter before looking away quickly. “I’ll take the check,” I said softly. “Dr. Montgomery already arranged to have the dinner charged to your account, Mrs. Montgomery. Standing instructions.” His voice was kind, which somehow made it worse. Of course. Chris had set up automatic billing for our anniversary dinners. Efficient, like everything else about him. Except showing up. — The morning light streamed through the penthouse windows when I returned from my sister’s apartment. I hadn’t been able to face our empty bed last night, not after sitting alone in that restaurant, not after those photos. The silence of our home greeted me—pristine surfaces, designer furniture, the curated art pieces that decorated walls but somehow never made this place feel warm. I set my keys in the crystal dish by the door, the soft clink echoing through the space. That’s when I saw it. Draped carelessly over the back of our Italian leather couch—a camel-colored scarf with the distinctive Burberry pattern. Not mine. I approached it slowly, as if it might rear up like a snake. My fingers brushed the cashmere, still carrying the faint warmth of its owner. I lifted it to my face, inhaling involuntarily. Floral notes with a hint of something spicy. Unmistakably feminine, unmistakably not my signature scent. The perfume lingered in the air too, I realized—not just on the scarf. It hung in our living room like an invisible intruder. I followed the scent, my legs moving mechanically toward our bedroom. The bed was made—our housekeeper’s work, not Chris’s. But one of the decorative pillows was slightly askew, the duvet not quite perfectly aligned. Something inside me—something that had been bending and bending for three long years—finally snapped. I stood in our pristine living room, the Burberry scarf clutched in my trembling hand as I heard the front door open. Chris strode in with the confidence of a man who owned the world—tailored suit, not a hair out of place, his surgeon’s hands holding nothing but his phone and car keys. No gift. No apology. “You’re home,” he said, his tone suggesting mild surprise rather than guilt. He set his keys in the crystal dish beside mine, the soft clink echoing between us. “I found this.” I held up the scarf, watching his face for any flicker of recognition or remorse. “And there’s perfume in the air. Perfume that isn’t mine.” His expression remained impassive, but something hardened in his eyes. “What exactly are you implying, Evelyn?” “I’m not implying anything. I’m asking why Jamie Collins’s scarf is in our living room, and why our bedroom smells like her perfume.” My voice was steadier than I expected, fueled by three years of swallowed hurt. Chris sighed—the patronizing sound he reserved for patients who questioned his medical judgment. “That’s Jamie’s? She must have left it when the surgical team met here last week for the quarterly planning session. You were at your mother’s charity event, remember?” I hadn’t known about any meeting in our home. “And the photos of you bringing her to the ER last night? During our anniversary dinner?” The words scraped my throat on their way out. His face softened into something resembling concern, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “She collapsed after her shift. What was I supposed to do, Evelyn? Let her suffer because we had dinner plans?” “You could have called.” “I was busy saving someone who needed me.” He stepped closer, placing his hands on my shoulders. They felt heavy, not comforting. “Honestly, this jealousy isn’t like you. Jamie is my resident, nothing more. Perhaps you should talk to someone about these… insecurities.” The suggestion that I needed therapy for noticing the obvious made something cold settle in my stomach. I stepped back, his hands falling away. “I waited for two hours,” I said quietly. “And I’m sorry about that.” He wasn’t. “But this paranoia needs to stop. It’s beneath you, and frankly, it’s beneath us.” Us. As if we were still a team. As if there had ever been an “us” beyond the merger of our family names and bank accounts. I watched him walk away, disappearing into his study without another glance at the scarf still dangling from my fingers. — The Boston General Foundation Gala glittered with wealth and ambition. Crystal chandeliers cast diamond-like reflections across the ballroom as Boston’s elite mingled, champagne flutes in hand. At our table near the stage, I sat alone while Chris worked the room, his charismatic laugh carrying across the space. “Mrs. Montgomery, you look absolutely stunning tonight,” Dr. Weiss’s wife said, settling into the chair beside me. Her eyes held the same pity I’d seen in the maître d’s. I smiled politely, smoothing the silk of my emerald gown. “Thank you. And please, call me Evelyn.” Chris finally returned to our table just as the hospital director took the stage to introduce him. He squeezed my shoulder briefly—a public display of affection for watching eyes—before straightening his bow tie. “And now, I’m pleased to introduce our Chief of Surgery, the visionary behind Boston General’s upcoming West Wing expansion, Dr. Christopher Montgomery.” Applause rippled through the room as Chris ascended the steps to the podium, his smile dazzling under the spotlights. I clapped mechanically, the diamond wedding band on my finger catching the light. “Thank you all for your continued support of Boston General,” Chris began, his voice commanding the room. “Tonight’s contributions will—” A commotion from the side of the stage interrupted him. Jamie Collins, resplendent in a form-fitting silver dress, swayed dramatically, one hand pressed to her forehead. “I’m sorry,” she called out, voice breathy and weak. “I feel faint…” Without hesitation—without even a glance in my direction—Chris abandoned his speech mid-sentence, rushing to her side. The microphone picked up his concerned murmur: “I’ve got you, Jamie.” Every eye in the ballroom shifted from them to me, watching for my reaction as my husband guided his resident to a chair, kneeling beside her with tender attention. I remained perfectly still, my face a practiced mask of composure while something inside me calcified into resolve. This would be the last time Christopher Montgomery made me a spectacle of pity. I sat across from Marcus in his office, the morning light filtering through the blinds and casting striped shadows across his polished desk. His eyes—kind but shrewd—studied me as I slid the folder of documents toward him. “You’re certain about this?” he asked, his voice steady and calm as always. “I’ve never been more certain of anything,” I replied, surprised by the steadiness in my own voice. Three days had passed since the gala, since Jamie’s theatrical swoon and Chris’s reflexive abandonment of his speech to rush to her side. Three days of silent meals and separate bedrooms. Marcus nodded, opening the folder to review the withdrawal forms I’d already filled out. “The West Wing expansion is his pet project,” he said, not a question but a statement of fact. “Without your family’s backing, it stalls immediately.” “I know.” A small smile played at my lips. “That’s rather the point.” He met my gaze, his expression professional but with an undercurrent of approval. “I’ll process these personally. The first transfers should complete by tomorrow.” I picked up the Mont Blanc pen he offered, feeling its weight in my hand. Each signature felt like reclaiming a piece of myself—Parker funds that had been funneled into Montgomery dreams without so much as a consultation. One elegant stroke after another, I signed my maiden name. Evelyn Parker. Not Montgomery. Parker. “There will be questions,” Marcus warned gently. “From the board, from Chris.” “Let there be,” I replied, capping the pen with a satisfying click. — The text message came three days later from Olivia Chen, a nurse I’d always exchanged pleasantries with during hospital functions. We weren’t close, but there had always been a quiet respect between us. *I think you should see this. I’m sorry.* Attached was a screenshot of what appeared to be an accidental group text Jamie had sent to several hospital staff members before quickly deleting it. But not quickly enough. The image showed Chris, unmistakably Chris, shirtless in what was clearly not our bed. The timestamp: 2:17 AM last night. While I’d been sleeping alone in our penthouse, believing he was working a late shift. I stared at my phone, waiting for the tidal wave of pain to hit. Instead, I felt an odd sense of validation. Proof. Finally, irrefutable proof that I wasn’t paranoid, wasn’t imagining things, wasn’t—as Chris had suggested—in need of therapy for my “insecurities.” *Thank you, Olivia,* I typed back, my fingers steady. Her response came quickly: *Are you okay?* I considered the question, truly considered it. Was I okay? No. But I would be. *I will be,* I replied honestly. — The doorman called up just after midnight. “Mrs. Montgomery, there’s a courier with a delivery for you. He insists it’s urgent.” “Send him up, please, Thomas.” Minutes later, I signed for a manila envelope with no return address. The courier—a young man with tired eyes—nodded respectfully before disappearing back toward the elevator. Inside the envelope: eight high-quality photographs. Chris and Jamie at an intimate restaurant in Cambridge, his hand covering hers on the table. Chris and Jamie entering a hotel that wasn’t Boston General. Chris kissing Jamie against her car in a darkened parking garage, his wedding ring clearly visible on the hand cupping her face. I spread the photos across our dining table, studying each one methodically, as if they were evidence in a case I was building. Which, in a way, they were. My laptop hummed to life as I created a new, encrypted folder. I scanned each photograph, saved it, and labeled it with the date visible on the timestamp. Then I gathered the physical copies, returned them to the envelope, and locked them in my personal safe—the one Chris didn’t have the combination to. Someone was watching them. Someone wanted me to know. As I closed my laptop, my phone lit up with a text from Chris: *Surgery running late. Don’t wait up.* I smiled to myself, a cold, determined smile that would have surprised anyone who thought they knew Evelyn Parker-Montgomery. *No,* I texted back. *I won’t wait.*
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