I can feel it.

And I don’t want to know.

I have to know, but I don’t want to.

Panic burns hot, deep down.

He pulls me inside his office, wraps me up in an embrace. He’s as strong as ever, it seems. He grips me fiercely. “I love you,” he whispers.

“Tell me.”

“Soon.” A sigh. “Soon.”

“When?”

He touches his forehead to mine. Kisses my hair, my temple. Then reaches back and picks up something off his desk. “We’re going on vacation.” A seeming non sequitur.

He hands me two first-class tickets to Paris.

“Paris?” I want to be excited, but fear is what I feel.

He nods. “Paris, for a month.”

“A month?”

He winks at me. “Pack light. You won’t need much clothing.”

I roll my eyes. “We’re not going to fly all the way to France to spend the entire time fucking in the hotel room.”

He kisses my temple. “No, we’re not. Not the entire time, at least.”

“A month. I’ve saved up a bunch of sick days, but…”

“I’ve already worked it out with your boss. It’s covered. You have three weeks off, paid, the fourth used as sick days.”

“Sneaky, sneaky,” I laugh, and lean against him. “Just come to bed, Adrian. Please?”

He glances over his shoulder at his laptop, open, the blue-white light illuminating the otherwise dark room. “Okay. Bed, then.”

I smirk up at him. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

He palms my butt. “You always do, my love.”

“Ah, the old ass grab. The most romantic move in any man’s repertoire.”

We tease each other all the way upstairs, and my heart is in it, my body is in it, and even most of my mind. But there’s a part of me that notices how he always manages to pull my attention away from the issue without answering any questions, manages to deflect away from his refusal to talk to me about what’s going on with him.

A month in Paris, I reflect, as I lie awake, afterward. He’s snoring beside me, turned to face me, one leg thrown over mine, his manhood slack and wet against my hip, hand flung over my breast.

A month in Paris is way more than a vacation.

Fear is building. Panic. Desperation.

“Don’t leave me,” I whisper to my sleeping husband. “Please, don’t leave me.”

Never. I won’t leave you. I swear on my soul.

Keep that promise, my love. Please.

The Truth Will Out

“Welcome to Charles de Gaulle International Airport. The local time is 1:43a.m.…” the message continues with announcements and information, and then everything is repeated in French.