She Was My Daughter First Chapter 1

It was the last day of my thirty-fifth year when I discovered my professor husband was cheating.

He came home late, as usual, after his weekly lab meeting, but in the dead of night, he was writhing in agony, clutching his stomach. His tailored dress shirt smelled unmistakably of heavily spiced Creole food.

Alistair Stone, my husband, had a notoriously delicate digestive system. He hadn't touched anything that rich or spicy in the two decades I’d known him.

I called his research assistant. That’s when I found out a new female student, Sera, had joined the group that day. Alistair had gone with the group—and indulged her—by eating at a trendy, notorious seafood spot known for its fiery Jambalaya.

“It’s nothing, really,” I said, trying to keep my voice even, “but Professor Stone has a sensitive stomach. Could you make sure he doesn't eat anything like that again?”

A hesitant um came from the other end. “Mrs. Stone, to be honest, Sera doesn’t even qualify for the research group.”

* * *

Sera. The name wasn’t unfamiliar.

A strange, sickening thought exploded in my mind.

Alistair was lying in bed, still resting, his brows tightly furrowed in pain. We had been married for so long, we were too familiar with each other. Too complacent. I easily unlocked his phone.

The lab group chat was benign. Everything looked normal.

Except for the direct messages.

Alistair: You can’t fall asleep in the next meeting.

Sera: Well, it was boring! I promise I’ll watch you next time, Professor. Watching you keeps me awake.

Alistair: Good.

Sera: “Professor Stone” sounds so old. Can I call you "Ali" or maybe “Little Professor”?

Alistair: Hmm. Whatever you like.

Sera: Mwah! (heart-eye emoji)

I pulled up her profile picture and matched it with the photo on his desk. It was her. Sera, the girl I knew.

A cold, heavy knot formed in my chest, lodged between my ribs, making it hard to breathe.

Alistair woke up as the last of the evening light faded.

I handed him a glass of water, placing it alongside the open screen of his phone, displaying their chat. Even as he was recovering, Sera had sent him a barrage of trivial questions.

“Little Professor, are we going for Creole again tomorrow?”

“Ali, I can’t write this paper. Can I hire you to ghostwrite it for me? I’ll give you second author credit!”

She was only a senior in college, not even enrolled in a graduate program. By any rational measure, she shouldn't have been in his master's-level research group.

“Make her leave,” I said, my voice dangerously low. “She knows nothing. She’ll drag down your team’s progress.”

I took a deep, controlled breath. “I can pretend this never happened.”

Twenty years of history. I was doing my best to let him save face.

Alistair’s gaze finally settled on the faintly glowing screen. He squinted at me.

“Eliza.” He didn’t use my nickname, Liz. It was formal, cold.

“If I hadn't married you, you'd still just be a girl selling bouquets on a street corner.”