he waiter placed his hands on the table, his smirk widening as James stiffened. I stared at my husband, then at the ring in my fingers. It was beautiful—white gold, a delicate diamond—but it wasn’t mine.
“James?” I asked, my stomach tightening.
James’ eyes darted around, his face pale. He swallowed hard. “I—I don’t know what’s going on.”
The waiter chuckled. “Oh, you don’t? That’s funny.” He turned to me. “Ma’am, I suggest you ask your husband why this **exact ring** was left behind **last week**—at this very restaurant.”
My blood ran cold. “Last week?” I looked at James, my voice shaky. “You said you were at a work conference last week.”
James shot up from his chair. “This is a mistake. Let’s just go.”
But the waiter wasn’t finished. He pulled out his phone, tapped a few times, then turned the screen toward me. My breath caught in my throat.
**A photo. Of James. Sitting at this very table. With another woman.**
She was laughing, her hand resting over his. **Wearing the exact ring I just pulled out of my salad.**
My hands trembled. “James… who is she?”
He didn’t answer. But the guilt written all over his face told me everything I needed to know.
