Something isn't right. I know as soon as I walk through the door to our home and see Christian's car keys in the dish on the side table of the hallway instead of the key ring above it. He hates putting his keys in the dish because of the confusion it would create when all of our keys were in the bowl; I always thought that was a silly notion, which is why the dish is mine and the key ring above it is his. Christian never puts his keys in the dish.

Closing the door slowly, I can hear my heavy breathing as I tentatively lock the knob and dead bolt. The sound echoes eerily throughout the cavernous house. Since the renovation was just completed, there's a lot of empty space to be filled.

I cautiously look left and right, not noticing any item out of place, nothing else unusual. I feel confused as take a step forward across the wooden floors, my eyes narrowing in a minor form of anxiety. The first thought that races through my mind is the location of my son, then I remember that Taylor's daughter is watching him with Gail for today. My second thought is on the location of my husband.

Tentatively, I make my war ever so slowly through our home, scoping out every detail looking for signs of…anything, really. I hear water dripping from the faucet into the low metal basin of the kitchen sink to my right, the bright red room only containing deep mahogany cupboards, granite counters, and modern bar stools, with a large opening for the absent dining room table and chairs. Our paintings from our honeymoon hang on the walls, bringing a smile to my face.

Seeing nothing unusual, I continue onward to my bedroom upstairs. As I get closer to the staircase, a small amount of fear begins to well up within my chest as I pass the large living room with only a couch, an empty room with glass French doors that will be the dining room, and the grand space that will be Christian's work area. Like the kitchen, there is nothing out of the ordinary that I can see.

I have no idea why I have such an anxious feeling inside of me; maybe it's divine intuition. I roll my eyes at the thought and take a deep breath, grasping the smooth wood of the staircase hand railing. I exhale shakily and it seems like time is moving in slow motion before I finally arrive at the top of the stairs.

The landing is darkened because the windows all have shades that are pulled down. Looking ahead to our bedroom, I see that the door is partially opened and light is seeping through the frame. I feel nervous walking towards our room. My heels click obnoxiously loudly against the wood floor and I feel like it's the absolute most deafening sound on the planet. What is this fear for? Reaching the door, I tentatively push the heavy slab of wood. It swings open noiselessly, and I see that the source of light is coming from Christian's bedside lamp in the corner of the great room. Then I see him.

Christian.

He is sitting slouched in a plush arm chair next to his bedside table, his head laying limp in his hand, his hair unusually messy, not tousled as usual. Oh, my God. Something is definitely wrong.

I feel like he's somehow easily spooked, so I resist the urge to rush over to his side. Instead, I cautiously take the necessary steps towards the extremely exhausted-looking Christian. I reach his side and slowly kneel beside the chair, taking great care as I do because I don't much feel like ripping my sleek black designer pencil skirt.

I try to gaze into Christian's eyes, but his face is enclosed in shadows. "Christian?" I whisper. The sound of his name usually brings pealing bells of pleasure to my ears but this time, it brings fear. He doesn't respond, and that's when I notice the stench of alcohol on my husband and the nearly empty bottle whisky clenched in his left hand.

"Christian," I say again, and this time I catch the corner of his lip twitching twice. His breathing is shallow.

"Christian, baby, please, you're scaring me," I say, close to panicking. Should I call someone? No, find out what's going on first. Hesitantly, I reach a shaky hand out to touch his forearm. I don't expect his reaction. Christian suddenly comes to life, jerking his forearm away and glaring at me with a fearsome look of pure icy devastation. Good God, what's going on? I frantically search his face to make sure that he's uninjured and see that his eyelids are swollen and rimmed with red and it's extremely apparent that he's been crying for a while.

I swing back in shocked rejection and my fear spikes to sheer terror. The malice in his glare is aimed directly at me. Dear God. He breathes heavily through flaring nostrils, his fist clenching tightly around the glass bottle of whisky. His knuckles are so pale white I'm sure he'll snap the glass from how tightly he grasps it.

"Please, Christian, what's wrong? Are you hurt? Did something happen? Talk to me, I feel like death right now!" I manage to sputter out. Seeing him like this, so torn and demolished and alarming and downright terrifying is destroying me. The last time he was like this was over a year ago when I told him about Ted for the first time. But this is worse. So, so much worse.

My eyes frantically search is beautiful face, wanting to murder whatever is causing him so much pain. But it's apparent that it's me, because there is so much malice in his look directed towards me. I feel like running, but I don't, because this is Christian. This is my husband, and we've been through thick and thin. My mind races at the cause of his anger.

"Baby…" I trail off because apparently nothing I'm saying is getting through to him.

Suddenly, he stands, towering over me in his business suit. It's clear that as soon as he finished work he came straight to this chair after grabbing his alcohol because he usually changes when he gets home. That was three hours ago.

His steamy glare continues to penetrate me as I kneel on the floor, his brooding frame intimidating and alarming. My heart is racing and my inner goddess is crouched behind an arm chair in fear. Why is he acting like this?

Feeling angry myself, I spit out, "Christian, you had better start talking or I swear to God!"

He finally speaks, "I need to talk? Do I, am I actually the one who needs to do the talking?" His voice is husky and dry, like he's been screaming out in fury.

I feel confused at his words. "You're being completely irrational. What is this about, just tell me?" I ask, turning my fear into infuriation.

He takes a sudden dive down the floor on one knee, his face right in mine. Normally, I absolutely love this proximity, but the movement startles me and I fall to my elbows. Any other day this could have been the start to a wonderful evening of passion, but for obvious reasons this will probably not be one of those evenings.

Christian continues to stare at me for a few seconds that seem like years, then finally asks, "Would you care to explain to me why my son," he spits the word coldly, "isn't mine?"

Utter shock trembles throughout my body, along with sheer panic and disbelief at his words. "What?" I ask, incredulously. Confusion crumples my face and his is hard with rage.

"You heard me. Why am I not the father of Ted?" Christian is so silent, yet it feels like he's screaming.

"I…" having no way to answer that. Except…

"Anastasia, answer me!" Christian finally lets go of his rage, screaming at the top of his lungs. The veins of his forehead bulge with the pressure of his wrath and his skin turns a deep red.

My entire body shakes as what I wished would never happen, happens. I look around the room, anywhere but at him, but he grabs my head in both hands and jerks my face to force me to look into his sad, angry gray eyes. This can't be happening, it just can't. It wasn't supposed to because Ted is Christian's no matter what. That's what Dr. Greene had said when I told her what had happened. She said not to worry, that'd he'd never find out if I didn't want him to. She said it was less than a fifteen percent chance of being so.

The odds were not in my favor, it seems, because Christian's fury rains down an ungodly firestorm upon me as I remember what I never told him, my only secret kept unwillingly from my beloved husband.

Tears well up in my eyes as the fearful and terrifying memory floods my mind.