The Kindest Deception

My name is Felicity Coolidge. I'm three months pregnant. Theodore Whitfield has grown more attentive, making detours after work every day to buy my favorite pickled plums. I often touch my flat belly, lost in thought, imagining what the child will look like when born — surely like Theodore, with a pair of gentle eyes. That afternoon, I went to the underground garage to retrieve a document Theodore had left in the car. As I opened the car door, sunlight slanted through the garage skylight. Tucked into the gap of the front passenger seat's floor mat was a delicate pearl earring. It's not mine. I never wear pearl jewelry. Holding the earring between my fingertips, its coldness seeped from my skin straight to my heart. How could there be another woman's earring in Theodore Whitfield's car? I told myself it must be a client who accidentally left it behind. Theodore works in sales and often drives clients around, so some oversight was inevitable. I casually placed the earrings on the center console, intending to ask Theodore Whitfield about them when he came back. After collecting the documents, I closed the car door without a second thought. But within just a few days, I found something strange in his car again. That day, Theodore Whitfield was working late and told me to drive home first. When I opened the trunk to put my bag inside, I glimpsed a black bundle curled up in the spare tire well. I reached in and pulled out a pair of worn black stockings. The edges of the stockings were frayed, still faintly carrying an elusive scent of unfamiliar perfume. My heart sank sharply. A client would never leave such intimate items in the car trunk. My hand holding the stockings began to tremble, and the nausea from morning sickness suddenly surged up my throat. I stumbled over to the garage trash bin and threw the stockings in. Back in the car, I pinched myself hard, trying to stay calm. Maybe I was overthinking it—perhaps Theodore Whitfield accidentally dropped them while helping a female colleague carry something. I kept reassuring myself, but the seed of unease had already taken root. What truly terrified me was what I discovered three days later. That day, I was sitting in the front passenger seat, and while tidying up, I noticed a dark stain at the edge of the seat cushion. I ran my finger over it; the stain was already dry and felt stiff. A chill ran up from my feet, and I quickly wiped the stain with a wet tissue, which revealed a faint reddish-brown tint. It was blood. The realization sent a cold wave through me, making it hard to breathe. Why was there a bloodstain in Theodore Whitfield's car? Those earrings, the black silk stockings, and this mottled bloodstain—what could they possibly mean? I didn't dare think any further. Forcing myself to stay calm, I tossed the wet wipe aside and pretended nothing had happened. When Theodore Whitfield returned that evening, I fixed my gaze on his face, searching for any sign in his expression. But he remained gentle, bringing me sour plums and even rubbing my aching waist without being asked. "What's wrong today? You don't look well." He asked, his voice filled with concern. "It's nothing. Just a bit tired, maybe." I averted my eyes, my voice trembling slightly. He didn't press further, only reminding me to get some rest early. I lay in bed, restless, my mind consumed by the discoveries in the car. I began to doubt Theodore Whitfield—the man I had loved for years, the man soon to be the father of my child.