Diane calmly sipped her drink.
“Your wife likes taking care of the house,” she added smoothly. “It gives her purpose.”
Ethan said nothing.
But his heartbeat had already started changing.
Something dark and heavy settled in his chest as he walked toward the kitchen.
Then he saw her.
Olivia Carter stood barefoot at the sink, one hand pressed against her swollen stomach while the other struggled to scrub hardened grease from a baking tray.
Dirty dishes towered around her.
Soap floated across cloudy water.
Her oversized T-shirt carried bleach stains.
Her face looked pale.
Exhausted.
Fragile.
And then Ethan noticed tears slipping silently down her cheeks into the sinkwater.
“Olivia.”
She jumped so hard she nearly dropped the pan.
“Ethan—you’re home already.” She forced a weak smile. “I was going to warm up your dinner. I just need to finish this.”
But her voice trembled.
And her knees were shaking.
Ethan walked forward without speaking, gently took the sponge from her hand, and shut off the faucet.
“You’re done.”
“Baby, it’s okay.”
“No,” he said quietly. “It’s really not.”
He took both her hands in his.
They were ice cold.
Wrinkled from water.
Red from soap.
“Why didn’t you call me?”
