I Exposed My Husband's Affair at His Father's Funeral

I set the roasted chicken on the table and stepped back. The skin was golden, the herbs perfect. Derek's favorite. I'd spent the afternoon in the kitchen, chopping rosemary and garlic, basting the bird every twenty minutes. The smell filled the townhouse—warm, rich, the kind of smell that should mean home.

Derek looked up from his seat at the head of the table and smiled. "Raelyn, this looks wonderful."

"Thanks, Dad." I pulled out my chair. "I hope it's as good as last time."

"Better, I'm sure." He reached for the serving spoon. "How was your day? Did you finish that book you were reading?"

I nodded. "I did. It was good. Sad ending, but good."

"The best ones usually are." He carved into the chicken with careful hands. "You'll have to lend it to me."

Gavin sat across from me, his phone face-up on the table. The screen lit every few seconds. He glanced at it, then back at his plate, then at it again. His fork moved through the mashed potatoes without purpose.

"Gavin," Derek said gently. "How's the Castellano deal coming along?"

"Fine." Gavin didn't look up. "Should close next week."

"That's good news." Derek's voice stayed warm, but I saw the small crease between his brows. "Your mother and I are proud of you."

Gavin's phone buzzed. He picked it up immediately, thumbs moving across the screen. Derek's fork paused in midair, then continued to his mouth. He chewed slowly and said nothing.

I poured water into Derek's glass. "I got those tickets for the symphony next month. The one you mentioned."

His face brightened. "You remembered."

"Of course."

Gavin stood abruptly, phone pressed to his ear. "I need to take this." He walked toward the hallway without waiting for a response. His voice drifted back, low and warm in a way it hadn't been at the table. "Hey… yeah, I can talk…"

Derek watched him go. The crease deepened. Then he turned back to me and smiled again, smaller this time. "This chicken really is perfect, Raelyn."

I smiled back. "I'm glad."

We ate in quiet. I asked about his week. He asked about mine. We talked about small things—the weather, the neighbor's new dog, a documentary he'd watched. Normal things. Good things. I didn't realize I was memorizing them.

Gavin came back ten minutes later and sat down without explanation. His phone went back on the table. Face-up. Always face-up.

Derek reached for his water glass, then stopped. His hand went to his throat.

"Dad?" I leaned forward. "Are you okay?"

He opened his mouth, but no sound came. His face was turning red. His fingers clawed at his collar.

I was on my feet before I finished thinking. "Gavin, call 911. Now."

Gavin looked up from his phone, confused. "What?"

"Call 911!" I moved to Derek's side, pulling his chair back, loosening his tie. His breathing was a horrible, wet rasp. His lips were swelling. "Dad, stay with me. Look at me."

Gavin fumbled for his phone. I heard him talking to the operator, his voice high and shaky. I tilted Derek's head back, checked his airway. His eyes were wide, terrified. I grabbed his hand and squeezed.

"You're going to be okay," I said. "Help is coming. Just breathe. Try to breathe."

The ambulance arrived in six minutes. They moved fast—questions, equipment, a stretcher. I answered everything. Gavin stood against the wall, pale and silent. They loaded Derek into the ambulance, and I climbed in after him.

"I'm coming," Gavin said from the doorway.

"Then follow us," one of the EMTs said. "We need to go."

The doors slammed shut. I sat beside Derek, holding his hand while they worked. Oxygen mask. IV line. Blood pressure cuff. The numbers on the monitor were bad. I didn't need to be a doctor to know that.

I pulled out my phone and called Gavin. It rang four times, then went to voicemail. I tried again. Same thing. I tried a third time.

The call didn't go through. The screen showed a single word: Blocked.

I stared at it. My hand was still holding Derek's. His pulse was weak under my fingers. The monitor beeped, fast and uneven. I looked at the EMT across from me.

"Is he going to make it?"

She didn't answer right away. Then she said, "We're doing everything we can."

I called Gavin again from the hospital lobby. Blocked. I called his office. No answer. I stood there with my phone in my hand, watching doctors and nurses move past me in blurs of white and blue, and I thought about the way he'd smiled at his screen during dinner.

I scrolled through my contacts and found a number I hadn't used in two years. My father's head of security.

He picked up on the first ring. "Miss Foster."

"I need a location," I said. "Right now."

"Send me the number."

I did. Twenty minutes later, my phone buzzed. A single message: Coney Island. Deno's Wonder Wheel. Active in last ten minutes.

I walked back to the ICU. A doctor met me at the door, and I knew before he said anything. I knew from his face.

"I'm sorry," he said. "We did everything we could."

I nodded. My throat was tight, but my voice came out steady. "Can I see him?"

They let me in. Derek looked smaller on the hospital bed, the machines silent around him. I sat down and took his hand. It was still warm.

"I'm sorry," I whispered. "I'm so sorry."

I stayed for an hour. Then I stood, kissed his forehead, and walked out.

I got in my car and drove to Coney Island.