"How could you even ask me that?" Chelsea demanded. "I'm not the cheater in this marriage, Peter. That's a title you hold."
"How do I know that? For all I know you might have gone out and had a one-night stand as a sort of revenge thing."
Chelsea gulped. Had Peter bugged their kitchen and somehow heard her tell Veronica about her fling with Jim Waterston? She knew that Veronica would never betray her secret to Peter. "Is that what you think of me?" she managed to stammer. "That I'd go to some cheap, trashy bar, pick up one of your co-workers and allow him to impregnate me just to get back at you? Boy, do you have some ego!"
Peter's dark blue eyes narrowed. "Who said anything about a co-worker?"
"Nobody--but that's obviously what you were saying." Chelsea began to cry. "How could you think that of me?"
"Pull yourself together," Peter hissed at her. "You aren't at home."
"No, I'm at your home--your new home. But Peter, this baby is your baby and he or she is going to be living with me in our home and I'd like to know what you plan on doing about it!"
"Give me a few minutes to figure that out, Chelsea. You just dropped a major bombshell on me and I need time to regroup. I mean, obviously this wasn't in my plans."
"Obviously," Chelsea sniffled. "Obviously your plans revolve around living in this tacky mausoleum, getting some kind of allowance from that old bag cougar wannabe Mavis, and becoming an aging boy toy in cashmere socks. I never knew you were so shallow, Peter."
"Neither did I," Peter replied, "but once I tried shallow on for size I learned that it fit me like a glove."
Slowly Chelsea got to her feet. "You don't need to walk me out. Stay here and think about all your grand plans to get your teeth whitened and your dimple deepened. Better yet, figure out how you're going to tell your new sweetie that you're going to be a daddy! I won't keep you from our child, Peter, in spite of what you've done to me. A child needs a mother and a father and even though I'm sure you'll be a poor excuse as a paternal figure, you're all this child has." She waited for Peter respond but only got a blank, dead pigeon stare in return. "I'm leaving," she said.
"I'll be in touch." As she passed her husband on her way out of the room, Peter touched her arm. For a split second, Chelsea felt the smallest glimmer of hope. Maybe Peter would see how pointless it was for him to try and be a member of Schuyler Square's Jet Set. Maybe he'd come back to her and they'd be able to raise little Ashton or little Adele together, the way they were supposed to. The glimmer faded when Peter stared at her like she'd just arrived from Mars with some very bad news.
"Don't tell anyone yet," he requested. "About the baby, I mean. Anything can happen, you know."
"Drop dead," Chelsea responded. She was almost to the front door when she heard footsteps descending the grand staircase. Mavis Schuyler, wearing a ridiculous gold brocade dressing gown and high heeled gold slippers, walked down the stairs toward her. If Peter had looked at her like she was from Mars, Mavis looked at her like she was a fungus that had just popped up from between the cracks in black and white tiles. "What do you want?" Mavis asked quite ungraciously.
"To speak to my husband but don't worry, I'm leaving."
Chelsea stormed out of Schuyler Manor wishing with all her heart that whoever had kidnapped Mavis had kept her permanently.
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