Chapter1

“Amelia, what are you doing in front of the closet at at 3 AM?” A thunderclap outside ripped the night open and a flash of lightning lit up the whole bedroom, my pupils shrinking sharply at the shadow. Damn, I’d been found out. I swallowed against a dry throat and forced my voice to sound casual: “Just insomnia, picking out clothes for tomorrow.” “Is that so...” Oliver wrapped his arms around my waist from behind; his heart thudded against his chest, and I bit my lip. For six months of marriage I had believed we had a perfect relationship. Oliver loved me; we were as happy as a fairy tale. Until yesterday, when that damned note appeared in my vanity drawer. The paper listed in detail the differences between the two ‘Oliver,’ and coldly told me — the other was called ‘Liam.’ They were ‘sharing’ me. Liam was hiding in the shadows of this house, living under the same roof as me. The yellowed pages recorded a suffocating truth: they took turns every six days — Oliver six days, Liam six days. My fingertips went cold; the paper rustled between trembling fingers. If this was true, then my husband... was handing me over to another man with his own hands. But how could that be? I’d searched the whole house and never found any trace of a third person living here. No extra razor, no clothes with a strange scent, not even a second toothbrush. “Don’t you want to do something tonight?” I curled into Oliver’s arms; tonight was the seventh day, the one day that the always-hot, almost nightly-loving Oliver would find an excuse to rest. “So generous tonight?” His voice was low and hoarse, and his hand had already slid under the hem of my nightgown. But the next second his tone shifted: “But it’s late now. Want some water first? Or... something to eat?” This wasn’t right. If it weren’t the seventh day, Oliver would never call it off at a time like this. A sharp twist of pain knotted my stomach. “...I’ll take a shower,” I forced my tone, “you go get something to eat.” “As you wish, my lady.” I heard the clatter of dishes from the kitchen. When Oliver came back carrying a bowl of oatmeal, he moved with a suspicious slowness. I reached to take it but realized he was gripping the bottom of the bowl with hidden force. The porcelain trembled between us, the surface of the hot porridge rippling with an odd sheen.