Chapter 4 - The Woman in the Headline
Grace turned off her phone.
Then she turned it back on.
She did that three times.
Each time, the headline remained.
Her private humiliation had become searchable.
Strangers were commenting.
How could he do that to a pregnant wife?
She should leave him.
Maybe she drove him to it.
Beautiful mistress though.
Men are trash.
Women are worse.
Grace stopped reading.
She felt physically sick.
Linda took the phone.
“No more.”
“My coworkers are going to see this.”
“Let them.”
“My neighbors.”
“Let them.”
“My daughter is going to grow up and this will exist.”
Linda’s expression changed.
“That part I understand.”
Grace began crying.
“I wanted Sophie’s birth story to be about her.”
Linda wrapped her arms around her.
“Then make the rest of her story better than the beginning.”
Grace clung to that.
Meanwhile, Ethan sat in his attorney’s office.
The company had offered him two options.
Resign immediately with a neutral employment reference.
Or face a formal disciplinary review based on violation of workplace-conduct and disclosure policies.
He had not stolen data.
But the undisclosed relationship itself was enough to end his career there.
“What would you do?” Ethan asked.
His attorney shrugged.
“If your priority is fighting for your job, request the hearing.”
“And if my priority is my family?”
“Your family has nothing to do with employment law.”
Ethan looked toward the window.
“That’s not what I asked.”
The attorney sighed.
“Then resign.”
Ethan did.
That afternoon he sent Grace a text.
I left the company.
She responded fifteen minutes later.
Okay.
Nothing else.
He stared at the word.
There had been a time when Grace sent paragraphs.
Now he received one word.
He deserved that.
The biggest legal danger fell on Sabrina.
Federal investigators questioned Victor Dane.
He eventually admitted receiving confidential information.
He claimed Sabrina offered it in exchange for help securing a position at his investment firm.
Sabrina denied that version.
Then investigators recovered voice messages.
Her career collapsed.
Her marriage ended.
Her accounts were frozen during the investigation.
For the first time in years, Sabrina had no control.
She called Ethan repeatedly.
He blocked her.
Then she wrote Grace a letter.
Grace did not open it for three days.
When she finally did, she expected excuses.
Instead:
Grace,
There is no version of this letter that makes me someone you should pity.
I knew Ethan was married.
I knew you were pregnant.
I knew he was vulnerable to attention, and at first I used that because I wanted access to information.
Then the relationship became personal.
That does not make it better.
It makes it uglier.
You walked into that office because you were bringing your husband dinner.
I was standing there knowing you existed.
I am sorry.
I know those words are small.
Sabrina
Grace folded the letter.
No anger explosion.
No satisfaction.
Just exhaustion.
She placed it in a drawer.
Sophie spent twenty-eight days in the NICU.
During that month, Grace and Ethan existed in a strange arrangement.
Parents.
Not spouses.
They took turns beside the incubator.
They learned how to feed Sophie through a tiny tube.
They celebrated every ounce.
Every oxygen reduction.
Every normal scan.
Sometimes they sat beside each other for hours without speaking.
One night Sophie’s oxygen saturation suddenly dropped.
Nurses moved quickly.
Grace panicked.
“What’s happening?”
Ethan stood.
A respiratory therapist adjusted Sophie’s tubing.
The alarm stopped.
Grace’s knees nearly gave way.
Ethan instinctively reached for her.
She let him.
For thirty seconds, she buried her face in his chest and cried.
Then she realized what she was doing.
She stepped back.
“I’m sorry.”
Ethan looked hurt.
“You don’t have to apologize.”
Grace sat down.
“I still love you.”
The admission surprised both of them.
Ethan’s eyes filled.
Grace continued immediately.
“That doesn’t mean I trust you.”
“I know.”
“And love is not enough.”
“I know.”
She looked at him sharply.
He almost smiled.
“Sorry.”
Despite herself, she laughed.
The first time in weeks.
It disappeared quickly.
Ethan sat across from her.
“I started therapy.”
Grace blinked.
“When?”
“Two weeks ago.”
“Why?”
“Because apparently blowing up your marriage is considered a symptom of something.”
She almost laughed again.
“What are you working on?”
“My need for validation.”
“That sounds accurate.”
“I also lie to avoid disappointing people.”
“That also sounds accurate.”
“And I confuse being admired with being loved.”
Grace became quiet.
“That one sounds expensive.”
Ethan smiled sadly.
“Very.”
Sophie came home on a cold Monday morning in November.
Grace dressed her in a tiny cream sweater and matching hat.
Ethan carried the car seat.
At the apartment entrance, he stopped.
Grace had already made the boundary clear.
He was not moving back in.
He stood beside the door.
“She’s home.”
Grace looked at their daughter.
“She is.”
Ethan kissed Sophie’s forehead.
Then he looked at Grace.
“Can I come by tomorrow?”
“For Sophie.”
“Yes.”
Grace nodded.
“Six.”
He left.
Grace closed the door.
For the first time, she was alone with her baby.
She sat on the couch.
Sophie slept against her chest.
Grace looked around the apartment.
The nursery.
Wedding photos.
Ethan’s shoes still beneath a chair.
His coffee mug in the cabinet.
She had not decided whether to divorce him.
She had not decided whether forgiveness was possible.
For the first time, Grace allowed herself not to decide.
Then someone knocked.
She expected Ethan had forgotten something.
She opened the door.
Mark Cole stood there.
He held a folder.
“I’m sorry to come without calling.”
Grace frowned.
“What happened?”
Mark handed her the folder.
“I found something in Sabrina’s files.”
Grace looked down.
“What?”
“A spreadsheet.”
“What kind?”
“Payments.”
Grace opened it.
Her eyes moved across several names.
Consultants.
Executives.
Expense accounts.
Then one name stopped her.
Ethan Mercer.
Next to it was a payment.
$75,000.
Grace looked up.
“What is this?”
May you like
Mark’s face was grim.
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
