My phone vibrated against the white tablecloth. “Happy fifth anniversary, baby,” the message from my husband read. I looked up, and Marcus had his hand on the back of another woman’s neck. He was sitting two tables away from me in a private booth, wearing the shirt I had ironed for him that morning. The restaurant was crowded, the lights were dim, and soft piano music played in the background. I had booked our table in Boston’s Back Bay three weeks earlier, bought a new dress, and spent an hour getting ready. Marcus had promised to arrive at eight. At twenty past nine, he texted that he was stuck at work. For a moment, I wanted to believe him. Then I watched him kiss a blonde woman slowly, without hesitation or guilt. It wasn’t a quick kiss or a mistake. It was the kind of kiss people shared when they believed nobody was watching. My stomach tightened as I recognized the smile he used to give me before our marriage became filled with excuses and unanswered questions.

Then the woman pulled back, adjusted her dress, and Marcus placed his hand gently on her stomach. Beneath the fabric was a small, unmistakable bump. She was pregnant. My fingers tightened around my wine glass, and I felt something inside me break. I wanted to stand up, shout his name, and make sure everyone in the restaurant knew exactly who he was. I was already pushing my chair back when a man’s voice whispered behind me. “Keep calm. The real show is about to begin.” I turned toward the next table. A stranger in a gray suit sat there, his beard neatly trimmed and silver hair visible at his temples. He didn’t look surprised or uncomfortable. He looked as though he had been waiting for this moment. “Who are you?” I whispered. He slid a small business card beside my plate. It read Elliot Crane. Nothing else. “Someone who knows that kiss isn’t the worst thing Marcus has done tonight,” he said.