Chapter 2 - “YOUR HUSBAND SLEPT WITH ME”Dorian came home at 2:13 in the morning.
Arielle knew because she was awake.
She sat in the library wearing silk pajamas beneath a cream robe, reading the same paragraph of a book she had not absorbed for forty minutes.
When the front door opened, she closed it.
Dorian appeared five minutes later.
No tuxedo jacket.
Tie loosened.
Exhausted.
“Arielle.”
She looked at him.
He stopped.
He had probably expected crying.
Maybe screaming.
Maybe shattered glass.
Instead she asked:
“Where’s Cambria?”
His face changed.
“I took her home.”
“Personally?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“She was upset.”
Arielle almost smiled.
“That was generous.”
“Arielle.”
“Did you sleep with her?”
Dorian went silent.
That silence answered too much.
Arielle watched him carefully.
“If the answer were no, you would have said it already.”
He looked away.
Her stomach tightened.
But her voice did not.
“How many times?”
“It’s complicated.”
“No.”
She stood.
“It is arithmetic.”
“How many times?”
Dorian rubbed the back of his neck.
“Arielle, what happened tonight—”
“Is separate.”
He looked surprised.
She continued:
“You hit me.”
“That will be dealt with later.”
“Right now I asked whether you slept with Cambria.”
Dorian stared at her.
Finally:
“Once.”
Arielle nodded.
“When?”
“New York.”
“Three months ago?”
“Yes.”
The perfume.
Of course.
“What hotel?”
“Why does that matter?”
“Because I’m deciding how many things you’ve lied about.”
Dorian’s jaw tightened.
“The Whitcomb.”
Arielle’s phone already held Cambria’s photograph.
The robe carried the Whitcomb crest.
At least this answer matched.
“When?”
“June seventeenth.”
Arielle remembered.
Dorian had called her that night at 8:40.
Said he was tired.
Said he loved her.
Said he had an early meeting.
“What time?”
“Arielle—”
“What time did you sleep with her?”
He looked ashamed.
“After midnight.”
“And at 8:40 you told me you were going to bed.”
“Yes.”
“Then you went to hers.”
“She came to my room.”
Interesting.
He corrected quickly:
“But I let her in.”
Arielle nodded.
“Good.”
“What?”
“At least you didn’t blame the doorknob.”
Dorian flinched.
“I made a mistake.”
“No.”
Her voice remained soft.
“You made a sequence.”
“You flirted.”
“You agreed to privacy.”
“You let her into your room.”
“You touched her.”
“You lied to me before.”
“You lied after.”
“A mistake is sending the wrong attachment.”
Dorian looked down.
Arielle asked:
“How long had you known her?”
“About a year.”
“Socially?”
“Yes.”
“Did you flirt before New York?”
Pause.
“Sometimes.”
“Did you kiss before New York?”
“No.”
“After?”
Dorian hesitated.
Arielle saw it.
“After?”
“Once.”
Her chest tightened.
“You said you slept together once.”
“We did.”
“You kissed again afterward.”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“July.”
“So the affair did not end in New York.”
“It wasn’t an affair.”
Arielle laughed softly.
Dorian looked hurt.
“You don’t get to define it smaller because the word embarrasses you.”
He sat.
“I ended it.”
“When?”
“July.”
“After the kiss?”
“Yes.”
“Then why did she tell me tonight that you’re not mine anymore?”
“Because she’s obsessed.”
Arielle’s eyes hardened.
“Interesting choice.”
“What?”
“She’s obsessed.”
“Not you encouraged her.”
“Not you lied to both women.”
“She became obsessed.”
Dorian sighed.
“I’m not avoiding responsibility.”
“You’ve been doing it for eight minutes.”
He stood.
“I’m trying to explain.”
“Then explain why she had photographs.”
His face changed.
Arielle showed him the hotel photo.
Dorian stared.
“Where did you get that?”
“She sent it.”
“When?”
“After I left.”
He enlarged it.
His expression darkened.
“I didn’t know she took this.”
Arielle watched.
“Your jacket.”
“Yes.”
“Your watch.”
“Yes.”
“So you’re not denying the room.”
“No.”
Dorian looked genuinely disturbed by the photograph.
Arielle filed that away.
“Anything else she might send me?”
He shook his head.
Then stopped.
Arielle saw.
“What?”
“Texts.”
“How many?”
“I deleted most.”
“Why?”
“Because I was ashamed.”
“Or because you didn’t want me to see them.”
“Both.”
Good.
Honest for once.
Arielle sat again.
“Did you tell Cambria you loved her?”
“No.”
“Did you tell her you would leave me?”
“No.”
“Did you complain about me to her?”
Dorian looked away.
That answer hurt more than she expected.
“What did you say?”
“That things between us had become…”
“What?”
“Distant.”
Arielle stared.
“Our marriage was distant?”
“I was stressed.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
Dorian swallowed.
“I told her we were going through a rough period.”
“We weren’t.”
“I know.”
Arielle looked at him for several seconds.
“You invented problems in our marriage so another woman wouldn’t feel guilty sleeping with you.”
Dorian closed his eyes.
“That’s fair.”
“No.”
She stood.
“That’s disgusting.”
For the first time, anger entered her voice.
Not loud.
But sharp.
Dorian stepped toward her.
“Arielle, please.”
She moved back.
“Don’t touch me tonight.”
He stopped instantly.
Good.
At least that boundary remained.
She continued:
“Where are you sleeping?”
“The guest room.”
“No.”
Dorian frowned.
“You’re not sleeping here.”
“This is my house too.”
“Yes.”
“And I am asking you to leave it tonight.”
He stared.
“Where am I supposed to go?”
Arielle almost laughed again.
“The Whitcomb seems comfortable.”
His face tightened.
“Arielle.”
“Hotel.”
“Friend.”
“Your mother.”
“Cambria.”
“I don’t care.”
“But not here.”
Dorian stood silently.
Then nodded.
“I’ll leave.”
Before he turned, Arielle asked:
“Did she fall on purpose?”
Dorian froze.
“I didn’t see it.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“I don’t know.”
“You slapped me without knowing.”
His face collapsed.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
Dorian’s voice dropped.
“I’m sorry.”
Arielle stared.
“For which part?”
He had no answer large enough.
She turned away.
After he left, Arielle went upstairs.
She stood before the bathroom mirror.
The faint mark on her cheek was already fading.
She looked at her wedding ring.
Did not remove it.
Not yet.
Then her phone vibrated.
Cambria again.
This time a message:
He’ll tell you it was once. Ask him about July 29.
Arielle stared.
Dorian had just admitted a July kiss.
Maybe Cambria knew because she was the woman he kissed.
Or maybe July 29 held something else.
Arielle opened her calendar.
July 29.
She had spent that evening at St. Joseph’s hospital.
Her younger sister had undergone emergency surgery.
Dorian had promised to come.
At 9:17 p.m., he texted:
Board crisis. I’m sorry. I can’t leave.
Arielle’s hand tightened around the phone.
Cambria’s next message arrived.
A photograph.
Dorian seated across from Cambria in a private restaurant booth.
Timestamp:
July 29.
9:42 p.m.
Arielle looked at the image.
Then at Dorian’s text from that same night.
I wish I could be there with you.
He had not been trapped at work.
May you like
He had been with Cambria.
And suddenly “once” was already falling apart.
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