Life Is Not Late

I cradled Chloe’s newborn, filled with joy and affection. The baby was not blood of mine, yet as Chloe’s best friend, I would love and protect the little one with everything I had.

"Sweet boy," I whispered, gently tapping the tip of his nose. "I'm your godmother. No one would ever hurt you."

The hospital room was washed in golden afternoon light. Adrian stood by the window in a dark overcoat, his profile sharp against the glass.

He looked exactly like the man the whole industry knew: controlled, elegant, untouchable. Hollywood's golden producer. My newlywed husband.

Then he said, in a voice as flat as if he were discussing a contract, "He's not your godson. He's my son."

For a second, I thought I had misheard him. Maybe I was just exhausted from the wedding, from the endless calls and fittings and congratulations. I almost laughed.

But Adrian turned around. A cruel little smile curved his lips.

"The child is mine," he said again.

My arms tightened around the baby.

"The night you got hurt," he went on, "I was with Chloe the whole night. We went through an entire box... apparently this little guy still found a way to arrive."

I couldn't move. It felt as if ice water had been poured down my throat. I opened my mouth, but no sound came out.

After a long silence, I finally managed to whisper, "But... we only registered our marriage yesterday."

Adrian walked over and put an arm around my shoulders, almost gently. His tone was soft, but it carried the kind of condescension people used with a child throwing a tantrum.

"Don't worry. Chloe and I were never going to get married. If I had wanted to marry her, I would have done it years ago."

He paused, and something almost pleased flashed in his eyes.

"Didn't Chloe ever tell you? We had a history. I was her first."

I didn't remember how I got back to our Beverly Hills mansion.

Three months earlier, I had stood on the Oscar stage with the Best Actress statuette in my shaking hands. Under the blinding flashes of cameras from every major media outlet, I announced my engagement. I told everyone I was ready to step back from the peak of my career and focus on building a family.

That night, the whole world called me the happiest woman alive.

Adrian had been sitting in the front row, looking at me with such devotion that I truly believed I was the only person in his universe.

Now I knew that devotion had been nothing but poison disguised as love.

By the time Adrian came home, the living room looked like a battlefield. I had smashed our wedding photos. Broken glass covered the floor. The silk decorations for our newlywed home had been torn down, and the master bedroom we were supposed to share was wrecked beyond recognition.

Adrian stood in the foyer and finished a cigarette in silence. Then he walked over and checked my hands.

"Did you cut yourself?"

I yanked my hand away. The anger I had been swallowing all afternoon finally burst out of me.

"Why?" I demanded, my eyes burning. "Why me?"

He raised an eyebrow, as if he was genuinely considering the question. Then he gave a short, dry laugh.

"Because you fit into my life, Evelyn. You're composed. You're respectable. For my career, you're the perfect producer's wife. You were even willing to retire for me. That kind of woman is meant to stand beside me."

Then he added, almost casually, "Not like Chloe. She's spoiled, unstable, and useless at home. You can't depend on her for anything."

His honesty hurt more than any lie could have.

When he saw the tears in my eyes, Adrian stepped closer and tried to pull me into his arms.

"Come on," he said. "I told you, Chloe and I don't have a future. From now on, we'll only have to deal with each other because of the child."

I shoved him away.

"Then why did you do this to me?" I screamed. "Why marry me when you already had a child with her?"

Adrian didn't answer. He only looked at me as if I were being unreasonable.

After a while, impatience settled over his face.

"Stop making a scene," he said. "Chloe is still waiting for me to bring her soup."

I stood there, frozen, and watched him go into the kitchen.

I watched him light the stove, chop the vegetables, and skim the foam from the broth with practiced ease.

In the three years we had been together, Adrian had never cooked for me once. I had always assumed he simply didn't know how. It turned out he knew exactly what he was doing. He had just never done it for me.

A memory suddenly surfaced: Chloe laughing as she told me that an ex-boyfriend once cooked for her every day because she was a picky eater.

At the time, I had smiled and teased her for being spoiled.

Now every detail matched the man standing in my kitchen.

Then all the other things I had forced myself to ignore came rushing back. Chloe handing Adrian his sunglasses a second before I could. Chloe knowing exactly what he refused to eat. Adrian walking out of an entire board meeting because Chloe had a fever.

I had seen all of it.

I had simply refused to understand.

Tears blurred my vision. When I spoke, my voice was rough and nearly gone.

"Adrian. I want a divorce."