The Midnight Show That Ended with My Husband’s Affair Chapter 02

The Midnight Show That Ended with My Husband’s Affair Chapter 02 No Need to Lean on Anyone
The next morning, I pushed open the bedroom door. Spencer was in the open kitchen, frying bacon. When he heard me, he turned to me. Behind his wire-rimmed glasses, his eyes held a soft smile. “You’re up? Good. Perfect timing.” He placed a plate of sunny-side eggs and bacon on the table, his tone as natural as if the man who had spoken those cruel words in the study last night had never existed. “Happy anniversary, Lena.” I stood there. For the past seven years, he had always cooked on our anniversary. But only on our anniversary. “Drink some water first.” He pulled out a chair and slid a thin document toward me. “Eat your breakfast, then sign this. It’s a bit urgent—best to post it from your personal account this morning.” I looked down. It wasn’t an anniversary gift. It was a meticulously drafted public apology. The statement was written in my voice. It admitted that, during the last episode of my show, I had mishandled a caller’s story, led her into a damaging conversation, and thereby caused her public harassment and psychological trauma. I would take full responsibility. “What is this?” I heard my own voice, eerily calm. Spencer sat across from me, frowning slightly. “The recording of that call last night was clipped and posted online. Other students in the same department recognized her voice. Now the university forums and social media are flooded with abuse, calling her a home-wrecker, morally bankrupt.” He paused for a while. “Lena, online bullying isn’t a game. That young girl is incredibly fragile. She already had a serious stress reaction last night. Your show’s over anyway, and you’re a veteran in this industry. So if you just take the blame and claim it was a staged bit, that’s the quickest way to save her.” How ridiculous. Seven years ago, when I was being attacked online for reading the wrong script, Spencer had spent the night researching cases, using his legal expertise to send those lawyers’ letters that shielded me from every arrow. Seven years later, facing the same kind of online firestorm, this man who claimed the law was his backbone had drafted a forced confession—forcing his own wife to take the blame for the woman who had come between them. “And if I refuse to sign?” I looked him straight in the eye. “I did my job within broadcasting standards. I violated no rules. You’re a law professor, Spencer. You know I did nothing wrong.” “Lena, this isn’t a courtroom. It’s crisis management.” His voice hardened, and a flicker of disappointment crossed his face. “That girl is an orphan. She fought hard to get into this university. If this blows up, her future is destroyed. You’ve always been generous and reasonable. Why are you being so petty all of a sudden?” “Because her name is Summer Vance, isn’t it?” Those four words froze the air in the kitchen. Spencer’s hand, holding his coffee mug, stopped. His face shifted. For the first time, that mask of perfect control showed a crack of panic. “You …how do you know her?” His voice went dry. “Since you heard, I won’t lie to you, Lena. What’s between Summer and me isn’t what you think. She’s too fragile. She has nothing except me.” “Sign this. I’ll owe you one. The position of Mrs. Whitmore will always be yours. I promise you. That hasn’t changed.” Eight weeks pregnant—my body was already unstable. Last night’s emotional shock, followed by this, was too much. A wave of nausea and a deep, dragging pain in my lower abdomen. “Spencer … my stomach hurts …” I leaned back in the chair, the words barely escaping my clenched teeth. He started to stand, but his phone on the table buzzed. It was from Flynn Dawson. He answered without hesitation. Through the speaker came Flynn’s panicked shout, “Spencer, get here now! Summer is at the campus lake. She’s lost it. She says she’ll jump in to prove her innocence. No one can talk her down—she’s only asking for you!” Spencer’s pupils dilated. He shot to his feet. The motion knocked over the coffee cup. Brown liquid spread across the table, soaking the apology statement and splashing onto my skirt. “Spencer …” I reached out, trembling, and grabbed the hem of his coat. My fingers were ice-cold. “Don’t go … take me to the hospital. I’m … I’m bleeding.” Spencer looked down at me. Not a trace of concern in his eyes—only undisguised irritation. “Lena, that’s enough.” He pried my fingers off one by one, firmly. “You’ve always been a rational woman. Don’t use this kind of cheap fake-illness act to force my hand. It’s pathetic.” “Summer’s life is at risk. As for you—” He glanced at the paper on the table. “Calm down, sign it yourself. We’ll talk after I’ve handled things.” He turned and walked out the door with long strides. I slumped in the chair. The cramps grew sharper and fiercer. I looked down. Bright red blood was dripping down my inner thigh onto the polished wood floor. I didn’t cry. I felt desperate. I fumbled for my phone, now stained with coffee, and calmly dialed 911. Spencer was right. I was a tree. A tree that didn’t need to lean on anyone ever again.