Chapter 3 - The Cold Pasta

The night before, I'd waited until 11:47 for our anniversary dinner. I'd cooked Nathan's favorite pasta. Lit two candles. Opened a bottle of wine.
At eight, he'd texted: Emergency. I'm sorry.
At nine, I reheated the sauce. At ten-oh-five, I blew out one candle. By eleven-fifteen, I packed everything into containers and put it in the fridge.
He'd come home after midnight and found me asleep on the couch. The next morning he kissed my forehead. "I'll make it up to you, darling."
I'd smiled. Then, after he left for work, I searched his name online. I expected a hospital directory page. Instead I found an appointment-booking website.
Almost every review had been written by a woman.
"Nathan changed my life."
"I was terrified, but he made me feel beautiful again."
"My husband still doesn't know I went to him."
Then one line made my hand freeze over the mouse. "Ladies, trust me. He is worth every penny."
I booked the earliest available appointment under my maiden name. At first I told myself it would be funny — a wife surprising her overworked husband at the office. Then I pulled up to an ordinary building on the edge of town. No hospital logo. No medical signage. Just a receptionist in a sharp blazer saying, "Nathan will see you shortly," while four women waited beside me — one about twenty-five, another close to seventy — all of them smiling the exact same knowing smile whenever his name came up.
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By the time I opened his office door, I had imagined every possible explanation except the right one.
Now I was standing here, watching my husband rebuild a stranger's résumé.