Chapter 6
That night, I told Edgar I needed “space” and locked myself in the guest room again.
He didn’t push.
Which told me he was planning something more subtle.
At 5:40 the next morning, while the house was still quiet, I went into the study and searched the fireproof drawer where we kept legal documents.
Prenup. Yes.
Insurance records. Yes.
Trust abstracts. Yes.
A stack of correspondence in Edgar’s name from our fertility clinic. Also yes.
That stopped me.
I had never seen Edgar’s clinic mail. We usually handled everything together or through my portal. But there, clipped neatly in one file, was a lab summary from five months earlier.
I scanned the first paragraph.
And the room tipped.
The report did not say I was the likely cause of our fertility problems.
It said Edgar’s numbers had shown “severe male factor compromise” in one round of testing and recommended repeat analysis.
I read it twice. Three times.
For years, Kristina had referred to my barren body.
For months, Edgar had let me apologize after failed cycles.
And hidden in a study drawer was proof that he knew the truth was more complicated—and possibly centered on him.
I stuffed the report into my bag with the prenup and trust papers just as footsteps entered the hall.
Edgar.
I turned as he opened the study door.
His eyes went to the drawer. Then to my bag.
“What are you doing?”
“Looking for the prenup,” I said evenly.
“Why?”
“Because I’m married to a man who let his mother hide snakes in my bed.”
His expression hardened. “You don’t know that.”
“I heard you.”
He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. Not violently. Gently. The gesture frightened me more.
“Nora,” he said, “you are under incredible stress.”
I laughed once, a sound without humor. “There it is.”
“What?”
“The script. Fragile wife. Migraine. Confusion.”
His jaw shifted. “You are not thinking clearly.”
“Did your mother put those snakes in my bed?”
Silence.
Then: “I never saw her do it.”
A lawyer’s answer.
Not a husband’s.
I reached into my bag and held up the fertility report.
His face drained.
“You knew,” I said quietly. “You knew your results were compromised.”
“Nora—”
“You let her blame me.”
“It wasn’t that simple.”
“Wasn’t it?” My voice shook now, but not from weakness. “For six years, your mother humiliated me for failing to give this family a child, and you let her.”
He took one step toward me. “Give me that.”
“No.”
“Nora.”
“No.”
Something changed in his face then. Not rage. Something emptier.
Resignation, maybe.
As if he understood a line had been crossed and there was no returning from it.
He exhaled slowly. “My mother believes the family needs protection.”
“From what?”
He looked at me with sudden bitterness. “From instability. From outsiders. From losing control.”
“Outsiders?” I repeated. “I’m your wife.”
He laughed once. “To her? You were always provisional.”
That word lodged in my ribs.
Provisional.
As if I had been a temporary placement in my own marriage.
Before I could answer, Alma appeared in the hall, eyes wide. “Mr. Daniel is here.”
Daniel. The maintenance supervisor.
Edgar’s head snapped toward the door.
“Send him away,” he said.
Alma didn’t move.
“Alma,” he repeated.
But she looked at me.
May you like
Not him.
And I knew, with a sudden electric certainty, that Daniel had seen something he wasn’t supposed to.
