Chapter 3: Games People Play

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Three days after that ugly scene, Ryan posted a photo on his Instagram: my best friend pouting at him, while he flashed a peace sign at the camera.

The filter made them look like they belonged in a reality show—shiny, untouchable. The comments racked up instantly: fire emojis, hearts, the whole nine yards. It was a knife twist, public and deliberate.

"I really like women who get jealous for me. They’re so cute."

My thumb hovered over the comment button, but I couldn’t think of a single thing worth saying. I set my phone aside and buried myself in work. After the procedure, I’d need at least two weeks to recover, so I had to finish everything I could now.

My office was my fortress. I buried myself in spreadsheets, emails, late-night takeout. Anything to block out the chaos. The city hummed outside my window, but inside, it was all focused silence, the kind you only get when your world’s on fire and you need something to anchor you.

The voices were indignant:

"Is she crazy? At a time like this, she’s still working? Is she really going to give up her husband for her job?"

"He loves her so much, but she’s so cold—she doesn’t deserve him."

"Honestly, if she just admitted she was jealous, everything would be fine. Wouldn’t a happy family of three be better? Is it so hard to admit it?"

I nodded inwardly. Yes, it is hard.

Sometimes doing the right thing is the hardest thing in the world. Especially when everyone around you thinks you’re insane for not just playing along.

Just then, Ryan’s older brother called, sounding panicked.

I recognized the number instantly, my heart skipping a beat. The only time he ever called me was when Ryan had gotten himself into some mess.

"Megan, come quick, Ryan’s in trouble!"

There was a crash on the other end—like a wine bottle shattering—then the call cut off.

My breath caught. For a second, my whole body froze, then muscle memory took over. I grabbed my keys, jammed my feet into my sneakers, and tore out of my office, adrenaline pounding in my veins. I’d always been the one to pick up the pieces.

I rushed to the address from Ryan’s Instagram post. Outside the private room, I heard laughter inside:

The kind of laughter that grates, that makes you want to turn around and leave but also pulls you forward like a magnet. I pressed my ear against the door, heart thumping.

"Ryan, it’s been ages. Will your workaholic wife really show up?"

"She chased after Ryan for over twenty years before she caught him. Of course she’ll come."

"She didn’t even react to that post. Anyway, if Ryan loses, he can’t go back on his word—he owes me that Lakeside project."

The Lakeside project—I’d worked myself to the bone for a year, even gone to the office with an IV drip when I had a fever, just to keep it on track. He knew all this, and now, for a bet, he wanted to give it away.

I remembered the nights hunched over my laptop, the endless meetings, my fever burning hot enough to blur my vision. I’d poured myself into that project, chasing the kind of success you can’t buy on Michigan Avenue. Ryan knew all that—and he was ready to hand it away like a party favor.

Peeking through the door crack, I saw Ryan looking tense, staring at his phone.

His knee bounced under the table, the telltale sign he was nervous. I watched as his thumb hovered over my name, almost dialing, but never quite hitting call.

When I pushed open the door, everyone turned to look at me—some disappointed, some surprised. Ryan let out a sigh of relief.

The room smelled like whiskey and expensive cologne. Everyone went silent as I walked in. Ryan’s eyes softened, just a little, and he looked like he’d finally won a game he’d been losing all night.

"You all lost."

Luxury car keys, yacht keys, Rolex watches, and other valuables were piled on the table. Ryan’s lips curled in a faint smile. "I have plenty of these things—who cares?"

He swept his hand over the pile like he was some Vegas high-roller. But I could see the tremor in his fingers, the insecurity hiding beneath the swagger.

"Yeah, yeah, you have a wife who loves you more than life. We don’t."

The joke hung in the air, awkward and a little bitter. I forced a tight smile, unwilling to give them more.

"Just don’t end up driving her away."

Ryan’s expression darkened. Then, as if trying to prove something, he put his arm around my best friend Jessica’s waist and beckoned me over.

The gesture was showy, childish. Jessica looked smug, her eyes sliding to mine as if daring me to react. The room felt colder, all eyes watching for a blowup.

The voices:

"She should throw a fit, fight with the other girl for him. That way, he’ll look good in front of his friends."

"Honestly, isn’t he going too far? He’s married, and she’s pregnant."

"You don’t get it. This is love, okay? If she weren’t so stubborn, he wouldn’t resort to such extremes."

"He only slept with a woman for the first time two months ago, and still hasn’t touched his wife since."

The words stung more than I’d admit. I pressed a palm to my belly, feeling the truth of it under my skin.

Three years of marriage. Two months ago was the first time he touched me—and I got pregnant immediately.

I rested my hand on my swelling belly, fingers clenching.

The pressure was overwhelming. I kept my hand protectively over my stomach, a silent shield. I could feel the heat of their stares, waiting for the drama, but I wasn’t going to give them that satisfaction.

They watched me, waiting for me to lose control, to scream, to cry, to beg him to come back.

But I just looked at him, calm.

I squared my shoulders, chin up. I’d learned to be steel in these moments, even when my heart felt like glass.

"Ryan, how old are you? Can you stop being so childish?"

My voice was steady, flat. It was the only way to cut through the spectacle. The words hung between us, sharp and clear, and for a second, even his friends looked embarrassed for him.