The woman’s voice cut through the restaurant before I even saw her.
“How dare you have dinner with my boyfriend?”
Every head near our table turned.
I slowly set down my glass.
My name is Camille Arden, and until that Friday night, I thought my husband, Julian Arden, and I were having an ordinary anniversary dinner in Savannah, Georgia, at a quiet restaurant near the historic district.
We had been married for seven years.
The restaurant was warm, elegant, and crowded enough that I first assumed the woman was yelling at someone behind us.
Then she marched straight toward our table.
She was probably in her early thirties, wearing a dark red dress and carrying a phone in one hand.
Her face was flushed.
Her eyes were fixed on me.
“How dare you sit here like this?”
I frowned.
“Excuse me?”
She stopped beside the table.
“My boyfriend.”
I looked around.
Then back at her.
“Your boyfriend?”
For one absurd second, I thought she had mistaken us for another couple.
Then she pointed.
Not toward another table.
Not toward the bar.
Straight at my husband.
Julian.
I actually laughed once.
Not because it was funny.
Because the idea was so ridiculous my brain rejected it before I could process it.
“Him?”
The woman stared at me.
“Yes.”
I turned toward Julian.
I expected confusion.
Annoyance.
Maybe even a joke.
Instead, he looked down.
That was the moment everything changed.
“Julian?”
He didn’t meet my eyes.
The woman folded her arms.
“Tell her.”
I looked at him.
“Tell me what?”
He finally lifted his head.
“Camille, this is not what it looks like.”
The woman laughed bitterly.
“Oh, really?”
I turned toward her.
“Who are you?”
“Sabrina Holt.”
The name meant nothing to me.
She looked back at Julian.
“Should I tell her, or are you finally going to?”
Julian leaned back in his chair.
“Sabrina, lower your voice.”
That was worse.
He knew her.
Not casually.
