I lay beside him, watching the ceiling.
How many times had I fallen asleep next to this man without wondering what he might be hiding?
At midnight, I slipped out of bed and picked up his phone.
I knew the passcode. It was our wedding anniversary.
That small detail hurt more than it should have.
I opened his messages and searched for Tessa.
I expected to find affectionate conversations, promises, perhaps photographs that would confirm the worst.
Instead, I found a series of messages that made my stomach tighten for a completely different reason.
The first one read:
You have until Friday to tell your mother that the baby is yours. If you don’t, I’ll tell her myself. She deserves to know what kind of man you really are.
I scrolled upward.
Roy’s replies were short and increasingly angry.
I have told you repeatedly that I don’t know you.
Stop contacting me.
