I Was Only Your Substitute Husband
Language: en
The day Graham Shaw touched down at JFK after a decade in London, I handed my wife the divorce papers. Elena Hastings didn’t scream. She didn’t even flinch. She simply set down her tea—a delicate bone china cup filled with an Earl Grey that smelled like bergamot and indifference—and looked at me with those cool, slate-gray eyes that I had spent ten years trying to decipher. "I haven’t been unfaithful, Elias," she said. Her tone was flat, a professional monotone she usually reserved for dismissing a junior architect’s poorly drafted floor plan. She sat there, draped in a cream-colored…