At my husband’s office party, our 4-year-old daughter suddenly pointed to a woman across the room and said, “Mommy, that’s the lady with the butterflies!” I laughed awkwardly. “What butterflies, sweetie?” She leaned in close and whispered, “The ones Daddy said live in her bed.”

Adriana froze, her smile collapsing. Her pulse hammered as she followed Nora’s pointing finger. Across the room stood a woman with sleek auburn hair and a crimson dress that shimmered under the lights. She was laughing with someone, head tilted back, entirely at ease. Adriana recognized her instantly. Claire Duvall. Charles’s marketing manager.

He often praised Claire—her creativity, her “fresh ideas,” her “great energy.” Adriana had met her once at a barbecue last summer and sensed something she couldn’t name, a tension too subtle to prove. But now, as she saw the fleeting glances passing between her husband and Claire, her stomach turned cold.

She murmured an excuse and hurried toward the restroom, her heels echoing on the marble. Inside the stall, she gripped the counter, staring at her reflection. Butterflies. The word kept circling in her mind. Had Charles told their daughter bedtime stories about butterflies? Or was that something far more intimate?