You scramble to pull your shirt over your head, your heart pounding from the shock of her walking in. She stands in the doorway of the bedroom, arms crossed, her expression unreadable. The old Sarah would be crying, screaming, running to Emma. This Sarah just leans against the doorframe, her eyes slowly dragging down your body and then back up to your face.
She pulls her phone from her hoodie pocket, the screen a blinding white in the dim room. She doesn't even look at it. She knows the photo by heart.
"Put the rest of your clothes on, Dad." Her voice is flat. You finish dressing, a wave of false relief washing over you. You move toward the door to pass her, to explain, to do anything to get out of this room.
She steps into your path, blocking the exit. She doesn't move. Her face is inches from your chest. Slowly, she looks up, and you see it—not just hurt, not just betrayal, but a cold, possessive fire.
She tilts her head, jerking her thumb back toward the king-sized bed you and Emma share.
"Get on the bed. Now."
You open your mouth to protest. She holds up the phone, the photo of you and the coworker kissing glowing in the dark.
"I'm not asking, Daddy. Get on the bed with me… or I walk into the living room and show Mommy everything right now. Your choice."
