Sweet Red Lips in My Husband's Pocket

The courthouse steps felt steeper than they should have as I climbed them, a brown paper bag containing Johnathan's favorite turkey sandwich clutched in my sweaty palm. I'd spent the morning convincing myself this was a good idea—a loving gesture, a way to bridge the growing chasm between us.

But with each step, doubt crept in like cold fog.

The marble lobby echoed with the click of my heels, a sound that seemed too loud, too announcing. I'd dressed carefully that morning, choosing a navy dress that used to be his favorite, applying makeup with shaking hands, trying to resurrect some version of the woman he'd once claimed to love.

The security guard barely glanced at my visitor's badge as I made my way toward the prosecutor's wing. My heart hammered against my ribs as I turned the corner toward Johnathan's office, rehearsing what I'd say. *Surprise! I thought you might be hungry. I know you've been working so hard lately.*

But Johnathan wasn't in his office.

Through the glass partition, I could see him in the hallway near the copy machine, his head bent close to someone else's. A woman. She was shorter than me, with mousy brown hair pulled back in a practical bun and wearing a beige cardigan that did nothing for her complexion. Plain. Unremarkable.

Except for the way my husband was looking at her.

I'd seen that expression before—the slight tilt of his head, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he was genuinely amused. It was the same look he used to give me when we were dating, when I'd say something that delighted him in a way that made him forget the rest of the world existed.

Now he was giving it to her.

The woman—Miranda, I realized with a jolt, remembering the name from his Rebecca Martinez lie—laughed at something he said, her hand reaching out to touch his forearm. Not a brief, professional touch, but something lingering. Intimate. Her fingers traced down his sleeve as she spoke, and Johnathan didn't pull away.

Instead, he leaned closer.

I stood frozen in the hallway, the sandwich bag crinkling in my grip as I watched my husband's body language transform into something I barely recognized. His shoulders were relaxed in a way they never were at home anymore. His smile was genuine, unguarded. He looked... happy.

Happier than I'd seen him in months.

Miranda said something else, and Johnathan threw back his head and laughed—a rich, warm sound that used to be reserved for me. The sound hit me like a physical blow, stealing the breath from my lungs.

Before I could talk myself out of it, I forced my feet to move.

"Johnathan?"

Both of them turned at the sound of my voice. The transformation in Johnathan's expression was immediate and devastating—the warmth drained from his features like water through a sieve, replaced by something cold and irritated.

"Anna." His voice carried no warmth, no surprise, just barely concealed annoyance. "What are you doing here?"

"I brought you lunch." I held up the bag, feeling suddenly foolish. "I thought you might be hungry."

Miranda's eyes flicked between us, and I watched her face shift with the precision of someone adjusting a mask. The intimate, relaxed woman who'd been touching my husband's arm disappeared, replaced by someone cooler, more calculating.

"You must be Anna," she said, extending a hand with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "I'm Miranda Chen. I work in the victim services department."

Her handshake was firm, professional, but there was something in her gaze that made my skin crawl. Like she was studying me, cataloguing my weaknesses.

"It's nice to finally meet you," I said, though the words felt like ash in my mouth. "Johnathan's mentioned you."

That was a lie, but I wanted to see how they'd react.

Miranda's eyebrows rose slightly. "Has he? How sweet." She glanced at Johnathan with what looked like amusement. "I hope it was all good things."

"Anna," Johnathan interrupted, his voice sharp enough to cut glass. "I'm in the middle of an important discussion about the Morrison case. This really isn't a good time."

The dismissal hit me like a slap. In front of her. In front of Miranda, who was watching our interaction with the keen interest of someone enjoying a particularly entertaining show.

"I just thought—" I began.

"You thought wrong." Johnathan's jaw was tight, his eyes flashing with an anger that seemed disproportionate to my simple gesture. "I don't have time for surprise visits, Anna. I have actual work to do."

The words landed like physical blows, made worse by Miranda's presence. I could feel her watching, cataloguing this moment of my humiliation.

"Of course," I whispered, my cheeks burning. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt."

"The Morrison case is quite complex," Miranda added, her tone helpful but with an underlying edge that felt like mockery. "We've been working on it for weeks. It requires a lot of... collaboration."

The way she said 'collaboration' made my stomach turn.

"I should go," I said, backing away from them both. "I'll just... I'll see you at home, Johnathan."

"Don't wait up," he said without looking at me. "This is going to be a late night."

I turned and walked away on unsteady legs, feeling their eyes on my back. Behind me, I heard Miranda's soft laughter and Johnathan's murmured response, but I couldn't make out the words over the rushing in my ears.

The elevator ride down felt endless. I stared at my reflection in the polished steel doors, seeing a woman I barely recognized—hollow-eyed, deflated, clutching a sandwich that would never be eaten.

By the time I reached my car, the tears had started.

Dinner at the Andrews house that evening was a masterclass in quiet humiliation. Lucius Andrews sat at the head of the mahogany table like a king holding court, his silver hair perfectly styled, his suit immaculate despite the long day at the hospital. Johnathan's mother, Eleanor, fluttered around serving the pot roast she'd insisted on making, her coral lipstick as perfect as always.

Emma sat in her high chair between Johnathan and me, babbling happily and smearing mashed carrots across her face, blissfully unaware of the tension crackling through the air like electricity before a storm.

"How was your day, dear?" Eleanor asked, settling into her chair with the practiced grace of a woman who'd been playing hostess for forty years.

"Fine," I murmured, pushing food around my plate without really tasting it.

"Anna paid me a surprise visit at work today," Johnathan said, his voice deceptively casual. "Brought me lunch."

The way he said it made the gesture sound like an invasion rather than an act of love.

Lucius's fork paused halfway to his mouth. "Oh?"

"Right in the middle of an important case discussion," Johnathan continued, cutting his meat with precise, angry strokes. "Very disruptive."

I felt my cheeks flush. "I just thought—"

"The thing is, Anna," Lucius interrupted, his voice carrying the authority of a man accustomed to being obeyed, "Johnathan's work is extremely demanding. The cases he handles can make or break people's lives. They require absolute focus and professionalism."

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

"When you show up unannounced like that, you're not just interrupting his day—you're potentially compromising his effectiveness. His reputation." Lucius's pale blue eyes fixed on me with laser intensity. "And in a position like his, reputation is everything."

"I understand," I whispered.

"Do you?" He leaned back in his chair, studying me like a specimen under a microscope. "Because from where I sit, it looks like you don't understand your role in this family at all."

The words hit me like ice water. "My role?"

"Your job, Anna, is to support your husband. To make his life easier, not harder. To be the stable foundation he can rely on while he builds his career." Lucius's voice was patient but firm, like he was explaining something to a particularly slow child. "Showing up at his workplace like some insecure teenager checking up on her boyfriend is not supportive behavior."

Johnathan said nothing, just continued eating as if this conversation was perfectly normal.

"Daddy's right," Eleanor chimed in, her voice sweet but pointed. "A successful man needs a wife who understands boundaries. Who trusts him to do his job without interference."

I felt something crack inside my chest. "I do trust him."

"Then act like it," Lucius said simply. "Stop creating drama where none exists. Stop making Johnathan's life more difficult than it already is. And for God's sake, stop embarrassing him in front of his colleagues."

The rest of dinner passed in suffocating silence, broken only by Emma's cheerful babbling and the clink of silverware against china. I mechanically fed my daughter, cleaned her face, smiled when expected, all while feeling like I was drowning in my own dining room.

As we prepared to leave, Lucius pulled me aside in the hallway, his hand heavy on my shoulder.

"Anna," he said quietly, his voice almost fatherly. "I've watched Johnathan work his entire life to get where he is. He's going places—important places. Don't be the thing that holds him back."

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

"Good girl," he said, patting my shoulder like I was a well-trained dog. "I knew you'd understand."

But as we drove home in silence, Emma sleeping in her car seat and Johnathan staring straight ahead at the road, I realized I understood more than they thought.

I understood that I was completely and utterly alone.