He Forgot My Peaches, But Remembered His Mistress's Dog

"Peaches, Sam. Japanese white peaches. Did you call the importer?"

My husband didn't even look up from his phone. He was standing at the kitchen island, knotting his tie with one hand.

"Not yet. Tomorrow."

"You said that yesterday."

"Then I'll say it again tomorrow." He kissed the air near my cheek and grabbed his keys. "Work's insane, Hannah. You know that."

The front door shut behind him.

That was a month ago.

Six years ago, I was Hannah Moreau, one of the youngest Michelin-starred chefs in New York. Critics called my food "fearless." Then I married Sam Rourke, CEO of Rourke Systems, and hung up my knives. He said he wanted to come home to a real dinner. I wanted to be the one who made it.

So I cooked. Every breakfast. Every dinner. Every late-night snack when he came home smelling like the office.

All I'd asked for this year was two peaches.

For our anniversary, I wanted to make the salad I served him on our first date. Honey-sweet white peaches from Okayama, burrata, basil oil, a little black pepper. I could have ordered them myself. But Sam had the importer's number, and I wanted him to do one small thing.

He promised four times. He forgot four times.

---

On the morning of our anniversary, I seared his favorite ribeye, sliced it thin, and laid it over garlic rice with pickled shallots. I packed it into the lacquered bento box his mother gave us as a wedding gift.

Maybe if I brought it to him, he'd remember.

The receptionist on the forty-second floor stood up fast when she saw me.

"Mrs. Rourke! I didn't know you were coming. Mr. Rourke is in a meeting—"

"It's fine. I'll leave it on his desk."

"Wait, maybe I should call—"

I was already walking.

His office was empty. But the door to the private lounge behind it stood half open. Music drifted out. Something soft and girly. A woman's laugh climbed over it.

I pushed the door.

Pink balloons bobbed against the ceiling. Rose petals covered the carpet like spilled confetti. And on the bed, the one Sam swore he only used for naps during product launches, my husband had his hands under his secretary's skirt.

Chloe Darrow. Twenty-four. She'd started working for him last spring.

The bento box slipped in my hands. I caught it.

"Sam."

He rolled off her, not fast enough to look guilty. Just annoyed. He reached for his shirt on the floor.

"Jesus, Hannah. Ever heard of knocking?"

I stared at him. I actually waited for an apology. It never came.

"Knocking," I said. "That's what you have to say?"

Chloe sat up and tugged her blouse closed, slow, like she had all the time in the world. Her lipstick was smeared across her chin.

"Oh, Mrs. Rourke, please don't get the wrong idea." Her voice was sugar on sugar. "Today's Peanut's hundred-day anniversary. My puppy? I adopted him in the summer. Sam knew how much it meant to me, so he threw a little surprise party."

She pointed at the coffee table like she was showing me a gift.

A custom cake sat there. Two tiers. Fondant paw prints. On top was an edible photo of a tiny brown dachshund wearing a bow tie. Next to it, a gold box of dog treats with Japanese lettering. The shipping label still clung to the side.

Air freight. From Tokyo.

Something in my chest went very quiet.

"You flew in dog treats," I said. "From Japan."

Sam buttoned his cuffs. "They're organic. Chloe said Peanut has a sensitive stomach."

A laugh came out of me. I didn't mean for it to. It was thin and strange, and it scared me a little.

"I begged you for a month, Sam. A month. I only wanted two peaches." My voice cracked down the middle. "And you remembered how many days her dog has been alive?"

He rubbed his forehead like I was a headache.

"Hannah. It's a few goddamn peaches. Are you seriously doing this right now?"

"It's our anniversary."

He blinked. Just once. Long enough for me to see it.

He'd forgotten.

Chloe slid off the bed and touched her throat. A diamond necklace sparkled there, a teardrop stone the size of my thumbnail. She turned it in the light so I couldn't miss it.

"Sam's just really good to his staff," she said with a little smile. "He takes care of the people who work hard for him."

"Is that what you call it?"

"Chloe, stop." Sam didn't even sound angry at her. He sounded tired. "Hannah, go home. We'll talk tonight. You're making a scene in my office."

My office. My scene. Like I was the one who'd filled a room with balloons.

I opened the bento box.

Six years of mornings. Six years of standing over a stove at five a.m. so he could eat something warm. Six years of turning down every chef who called and asked, "Are you ever coming back?"

I tipped the box over the trash can. Steak, rice, shallots. All of it slid out and hit the bottom with a wet thump.

Sam's jaw went tight. "That's mature."

"You want mature?"

I twisted my wedding ring. It stuck at the knuckle, the way it always did when my hands were swollen from the kitchen. I pulled harder. It came free.

I tossed it onto the bed. It bounced once on the rumpled sheets and landed beside the dent where Chloe had been lying.

"I want a divorce."

The room went still. Even the stupid music seemed to fade.

Sam laughed. A short, sharp sound. "You're not serious."

"Watch me."

"Hannah, you haven't worked in six years. Where are you going to go?"

I didn't answer. I turned around. My legs shook, but they moved. One step toward the door. Then another.

I had my hand on the frame when Chloe spoke again. Her voice was light. Almost giggly.

"Sam, you still haven't told her?"

I stopped.

"Told me what?"

Behind me, I heard Sam say her name. Low. A warning.

Chloe ignored it. When I turned, she had one hand resting on her flat stomach, fingers spread wide, the diamond glinting under her chin.

She smiled at me like we were sharing a secret.

"I'm pregnant."