The lobby was warm and polished, filled with people who looked like they belonged, couples laughing softly, business travelers rolling suitcases across the marble floor. I approached the desk, my voice steady only because shock had numbed everything else.
“My husband misplaced his key card,” I said. “Matthew Lawson.”
The receptionist hesitated, then typed.
“He stays with us often,” she said without thinking.
The word often landed like a bruise.
She gave me the room number after a pause she would later regret.
The elevator ride felt endless. When I reached the room, I did not knock. The card from the laundry still worked.
Inside, the air was thick with tension and the sound of quiet sobbing.
A young woman sat on the bed, her hands shaking, her face streaked with tears. Matthew stood nearby holding a glass of water and a pill, his expression urgent and hard.
When he saw me, his face emptied of color.
The woman looked at me like I was something she had been hoping for without knowing why.
“I am pregnant,” she whispered.
Everything inside me rearranged itself.
I closed the door, my legs weak, my voice controlled only by sheer force of will.
“Put it down,” I said to Matthew, nodding toward the pill.