Chapter 3 - The Ghost at the Breakfast Table
"Emma?" Julian’s voice echoed down the long hallway, laced with false fatigue. He hung his wet cashmere overcoat on the rack, shaking off the city snow. He looked pristine, wearing the crisp tailored suit he always favored, though the faint scent of expensive gardenia perfume clung to his lapels like an invisible stain.
Emma stepped out of the nursery, dimming the soft nightlight behind her. She kept her posture slumped, her eyes lowered, fully embodying the exhausted, overwhelmed mother he expected to see. "You're back early," she whispered, her voice intentionally cracked and small.
Julian offered a practiced, sympathetic smile as he loosened his tie. "The board meeting wrapped sooner than expected. I couldn't bear the thought of my wife and babies spending Christmas Eve alone." He reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers were warm, sending a wave of absolute revulsion through her spine, but she did not flinch. "You look exhausted, Em. Did you get any rest at all?"
"Maya had colic," she lied softly, glancing down at his duffel bag sitting near the bench. "I barely sat down."
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"You need to hire a night nurse. I keep telling you we have the money for it," he said smoothly, walking into the kitchen to pour himself a glass of scotch. He glanced at the counter, his eyes darting subtly to where he had left the turquoise box. Seeing the bag still zipped, he exhaled a micro-breath of relief. He didn't know she had seen it. He thought he was completely undetected. Emma watched the small relaxation in his shoulders, noting every detail. But as Julian turned to toast her with his glass, his eyes locked onto the kitchen counter, and his smile evaporated.
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