Abandoned by Unfaithful Husband

I stumbled backstage, my legs carrying me through a maze of black curtains and equipment cases until I found a small mirrored alcove. The distant sounds of murmuring and camera shutters faded as blood rushed in my ears. My reflection stared back at me—a woman in white, pristine and poised, except for the tremor in her hands and the devastation in her eyes.

This couldn't be happening. Not here. Not like this.

"Mrs. Quinn!" A sharp voice cut through my daze. Melissa, Alexander's executive assistant, appeared beside me, her face tight with controlled panic. "The press is waiting. We need you for photos."

I stared at her, unable to process her words. "Photos?"

"Yes." Her voice dropped to a hiss. "Mr. Quinn specifically requested your presence. The narrative needs to be controlled immediately."

Of course. The narrative. Always the narrative with Alexander.

"I can't," I whispered, watching my reflection's lips form the words.

Melissa's expression hardened. "With all due respect, Mrs. Quinn, you must. This is a critical moment for Aurora Tech's public image." She thrust a compact into my hands. "Fix your makeup. You have two minutes."

I opened the compact with trembling fingers. Tears had carved thin rivers through my foundation. The woman in the mirror was a stranger—hollow-eyed and diminished. I dabbed at the streaks, erasing evidence of my pain as I had done so many times before.

A brittle smile stretched across my face. It would hold for the cameras. It would have to.

* * *

The next morning, Aurora Tech's headquarters buzzed with barely contained excitement. I stepped off the elevator onto our executive floor, and conversations immediately hushed. Eyes followed me with that peculiar mixture of fascination and discomfort reserved for public tragedies.

I kept my chin up, my heels clicking sharply against the polished concrete as I made my way to my office. The glass walls that had once symbolized our commitment to transparency now felt like an exhibition case. I was the specimen on display—the woman whose husband had just acknowledged his illegitimate child before all of New York.

As I passed the break room, I caught fragments of whispered conversation.

"...got his own desk already..."

"...email alias set up this morning..."

"...in the east wing, right next to Quinn's office..."

I froze, then forced myself to continue walking. Lucas. They were talking about Lucas.

In my office, I found a stack of internal memos requiring my signature. I flipped through them mechanically until one caught my eye. The Aurora Tech letterhead topped a document outlining new security protocols.

"Effective immediately," it read, "Lucas Hayes is to be granted Level 1 Executive Family access to all Aurora Tech facilities and is to be accommodated with appropriate workspace and resources."

My eyes burned as I read the final line: "All staff are reminded that Aurora Tech values family above all else and expects every team member to exemplify this core value in their interactions."

Family above all else. Except, apparently, me.

I set the memo aside, unsigned, just as a commotion erupted in the reception area. Female voices, one apologetic, one insistent. Then the click of heels approaching my door.

Charlotte Hayes appeared in my doorway, resplendent in a dove-gray dress that highlighted her slender figure. Her presence in our offices—my offices—was an invasion I hadn't prepared for.

"Isabella," she said, her voice soft with practiced concern. "I hope I'm not interrupting."

I stood, gripping the edge of my desk to steady myself. "Charlotte. What a surprise."

"I just dropped Lucas off with Alexander." She stepped into my space uninvited, her perfume—jasmine and something sharper—filling the air between us. "I wanted to see you. To explain."

"There's nothing to explain," I said, my voice steadier than I felt.

She tilted her head, studying me with those large, deceptively innocent eyes. "I never meant for it to happen this way. The public announcement... Lucas was just so excited to see his father."

His father. The words sliced through me like glass.

Charlotte reached into her handbag and withdrew a small cream-colored card. She placed it on my desk, her manicured fingertips lingering on the paper.

"I truly am sorry," she said, her eyes never leaving mine. "Alexander assured me you knew. That you had... an arrangement."

The implication hung in the air between us. Had Alexander told her we had an open marriage? That I had somehow consented to this betrayal?

After she left, I picked up the card. The paper was expensive, the scent of her perfume embedded in its fibers. Two words were written in elegant script: "I'm sorry."

But as I stared at those words, doubt crept in like poison. Was she really sorry? Or was this another calculated move in whatever game she was playing?

And Alexander—what other lies had he told?