“Did the woman leave a number?”

“Yes.”

She read it aloud. It wasn’t mine, so I wrote it down.

Then the baker hesitated.

“Actually, I think I’ve seen her before.”

“Here?”

“A few weeks ago. She came in with a man.”

“What did he look like?”

Her description made my blood run cold.

Tall, gray at the temples, wearing a navy jacket and wedding ring, with a small scar near his left eyebrow.

My husband, David.

I drove home with Emma’s cake secured in my SUV, wondering why David had visited the bakery with another woman.

That evening, after we loaded the wedding decorations into our cars, I confronted him in the kitchen.

I placed the number on the counter.

“Do you recognize this?”

“No.”

“Someone used it when she called Emma’s bakery pretending to be Emma.”

He frowned.

“And apparently,” I continued, “you were there with her a few weeks ago.”

David froze.

“Laura, tomorrow is our daughter’s wedding. Please don’t do this tonight.”

“So you do know her.”

“It’s not what you think.”

“Then tell me what it is.”

He glanced nervously toward the hallway.

“I can’t.”

I barely slept, convinced my husband was having an affair with a woman somehow connected to our daughter’s wedding.

The next morning, I pulled Emma into a dressing room at the venue.

“We need to talk.”

She was wearing her robe, her hair only half finished.

“Mom, what happened?”

“Your father knows the woman who called the bakery.”

Her expression changed.

“He was there with her.”

“Mom—”

“I think your father is having an affair.”

“Dad isn’t having an affair.”

Her immediate certainty startled me.

“How can you possibly know that?”

She looked away.

“Because I just know.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

David entered before I could question her further.

“I’m telling Emma about Laura,” I said.

“Laura, please.”

Emma faced him.

“Dad, you need to tell her.”

“You both know who she is?”

A venue employee appeared before he could answer.

“Sorry to interrupt. There’s a woman downstairs asking about the wedding cake.”

“She says her name is Laura.”

David went pale.

“She’s here?”

He hurried downstairs, and I followed.

A woman around our age stood near the entrance, wearing dark pants and a cream blouse, clutching her purse.

David stopped several feet away.

“You need to leave.”

She laughed bitterly.

“Still protecting her, David?”

“Is this her?” I demanded.

“Laura—”

I approached the stranger.

“How long have you been sleeping with my husband?”

She stared, then laughed in disbelief.

“Oh my God. You think I’m his mistress?”

“Then why does my husband know you? Why were you at my daughter’s bakery with him?”

“This isn’t the time.”

“No, David. You’ve had long enough.”

She turned toward me.

“Your husband and I are not having an affair.”

“Then why does he know you?”

She glanced at Emma, who had followed us downstairs.

“That’s not the question you should be asking.”

Someone spoke behind me.

“Don’t.”

Ryan, Emma’s fiancé, stood near the staircase.

The woman’s expression suddenly softened.

“Ryan.”

He stiffened.

“You know her?”

“My dad knows her too.”

“Your father made sure I disappeared.”

“Stop,” Ryan said.

“What is going on?” I demanded.

David touched my arm.

“Laura, we should go somewhere private.”

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