A Deal With Desire

Amelia

The rays of the setting sun streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of our Manhattan penthouse, casting a warm glow on the carefully curated artwork and designer furniture. Everything about this space screamed perfection.

The dining room was a vision of soft candlelight and elegance. I’d spent the entire day preparing for tonight—our wedding anniversary. The table was set with our finest china, a bottle of vintage red wine breathing on the counter, and a simple yet decadent dinner waiting to be served.

I smoothed down the fabric of my navy silk dress, my heart pounding in anticipation. Richard and I had been distant lately—his late nights at the office and curt responses cutting into the rhythm of our marriage. It wasn't unusual for a man as powerful as my husband to be preoccupied with business, but lately it felt different, colder—but tonight would be different. Tonight, I’d remind him of what we had, of what we built together.

The clock ticked past seven, and then eight. I lit the candles on the table, hoping the soft glow would mask the growing knot of anxiety in my stomach. Richard wasn’t answering his phone, and my carefully curated calm was beginning to fray.

At half past eight, the sound of his key in the lock made me jump. I smoothed my dress one last time, pasted on a smile, and turned toward the door.

“Richard,” I greeted, my smile faltering when he barely glanced at me, heading straight for the kitchen to pour himself a drink.

“You’re late,” I said, trying to keep my tone light.

“Yeah, sorry,” he replied tersely, downing half the glass in one go. He didn’t meet my eyes.

“It’s our anniversary,” I pressed, hoping to draw him out of whatever mood he was in.

“I know,” he said curtly, loosening his tie and leaning against the counter. “Work ran late.”

Work. Of course. Always work.

“I made dinner, there's wine, your favorite,” I said in hopes to salvage the night that was supposed to be a celebration.

“I'm tired, Amelia, I'm not in the mood, maybe we can celebrate it some other time,” Richard said.

Before I could respond, the doorbell rang.

“I’ll get it,” Richard said quickly, setting his glass down. The urgency in his tone surprised me.

I followed him to the door, curious. We weren’t expecting anyone. I was sure I didn't invite anyone to the house, I wanted tonight to be just for us, I guess I had way too much hope.

When he opened it, a woman stood there, her auburn hair catching the light of the hallway. She was striking, dressed in a fitted coat that only emphasized her petite figure. Cindy Daniels.

My heart sank.

“Richard,” she said, her voice sharp and accusing. “You left without a word. You said you’d meet me, remember? You promised.”

“I know,” Richard replied, stepping outside and pulling the door closed behind him, leaving me standing just a few feet away.

I strained to hear their muffled conversation, the low rumble of Richard’s voice punctuated by Cindy’s sharper tones.

“You can’t just ignore this,” she hissed. “You’re involved whether you like it or not.”

“Keep your voice down,” Richard said, his tone firm but quiet.

Involved? I clenched my fists, my stomach churning. What was going on?

Unable to bear the suspense, I opened the door and stepped outside. Both of them turned at the sound, their faces equally startled.

“Amelia ,” Richard started, his voice laced with guilt.

“Am I interrupting something?” I asked, my voice calm but sharp.

Cindy didn’t even flinch. Her eyes flicked over me, assessing, before settling on Richard. “I think it’s time she knew,” she said, her tone defiant.

“Cindy, don't!,”

“Knew what?” I demanded, my gaze darting between the two of them.

Richard ran a hand through his hair, his face a mixture of frustration and something else—fear, perhaps?

“Amelia ,” he began, but Cindy cut him off.

“I’m pregnant,” she said, her voice steady as she met my gaze.

The world seemed to tilt. My stomach dropped, and for a moment, I couldn’t breathe.

“You’re what?” I managed, my voice barely a whisper.

“Pregnant,” she repeated, folding her arms across her chest. “With Richard’s child.”

“And if you don't believe me, here's the evidence.” Cindy dipped her hand inside the fancy designer bag she was holding and brought out an envelope.

With shaky hands I took it and opened it, my feet nearly gave way

“I got a scan today at the hospital, it's a boy.” Cindy said haughtily.

The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating.

“Amelia, let me explain,” Richard said, stepping toward me, but I held up a hand to stop him.

“Explain?” I asked, my voice trembling with disbelief. “What could you possibly say to make this okay?”

He opened his mouth, but no words came. Cindy watched us with a faint smirk, as though she’d already won whatever twisted game she was playing.

I turned to Richard, my composure crumbling. “How long?”

“Amelia —”

“How. Long?” I demanded, my voice breaking.

“Six months,” he admitted, his gaze dropping to the ground.

Six months. Six. Bloody, Freaking. Months. The baby was almost due already. My breath hitched, the pieces falling into place—the late nights, the secrecy, the distance.

It wasn’t work that had consumed him. It was her.

“I can’t do this,” I said, shaking my head as tears blurred my vision. “I can’t.”

Before either of them could say anything, I turned and walked back into the house, slamming the door behind me.

The anniversary dinner sat untouched on the table, the candles burning low, their soft light mocking the hollow ache in my chest.