After His Mistress Attacked Me, He Defended Her

The clock ticked past eight. The roast beef on the dining table was getting cold. My father, Arthur, sat at the head of the table. His posture was rigid. His broad shoulders were squared like he was still in his military uniform, commanding a battalion. My mother, Beatrice, calmly sipped her water. Her elegant face revealed nothing.

Tonight was supposed to be important. Eddie was finally meeting my parents to discuss our upcoming wedding. I had spent ten years loving him, and we had been engaged for a year. I kept my family’s elite military background a secret all this time. I lived in a modest apartment. I drove a normal car. I wanted Eddie to love me for me, not for my family's power or money.

The doorbell rang forty-five minutes late. I rushed to open it. Eddie stood there in a wrinkled designer suit, looking down at his phone. He didn't apologize. He didn't even kiss my cheek. Instead, he shoved a plastic grocery bag into my hands.

Inside were two bottles of wine. The labels were peeling at the corners. It was the kind of cheap, sugary wine you buy at a corner gas station for ten dollars.

“Traffic was a nightmare,” Eddie said. He walked right past me into the house.

I carried the plastic bag to the dining room. My father looked at the cheap bottles, then at Eddie. His jaw tightened. A muscle twitched in his cheek. He didn't say a word, but the silence in the room grew heavy. My mother smiled thinly. Her eyes were cool.

“Have a seat, Eddie,” she said quietly.

We started eating in silence. The only sound was the clinking of silver forks against porcelain plates. Eddie didn't try to make conversation. He just ate fast. Then, his phone buzzed on the mahogany table. It vibrated loud against the wood. He glanced at the screen, and his face immediately softened. He didn't silence it. It buzzed again. And again.

“I have to take this,” he muttered. He pushed his chair back abruptly. The wooden legs scraped harshly against the floor. “Work emergency.”

He didn't wait for my parents to excuse him. He just walked out into the hallway.

My chest felt tight with humiliation. I looked at my father. His knuckles were white around his knife. “I'll go check on him,” I whispered.

I stood up and walked softly toward the hallway. I stopped just behind the archway, hidden in the shadows. Eddie’s voice drifted back to me. It wasn't the sharp, stressed tone he used for his tech company. It was low. Gentle. Coaxing.

“Come on, Cat. You know I didn't mean it like that,” he murmured. “Did you take your meds? Please don't cry, baby. I'm just at a boring dinner. I'll come over as soon as I can. Just breathe for me, okay?”

Catalina. His ex-girlfriend.

She was the one who claimed she had severe depression every time Eddie and I had a milestone. I stood frozen. The air in my lungs turned to ice. My hands curled into fists until my nails bit into my palms. He was coaxing his ex-girlfriend while my high-ranking military parents sat at a table he had just insulted with gas-station wine.

I didn't scream. I didn't confront him. I just turned around and walked back to the dining room. The silence in my head was deafening.

Later that night, Eddie left early. He claimed his server crashed. I didn't argue. I knew he went straight to Catalina.

I sat alone at my vanity in my childhood bedroom. The large house was completely silent. I opened my heavy mahogany jewelry box. Inside were diamonds, emeralds, and pearls my parents had gifted me over the years. But my fingers bypassed them all. I reached into the very back and picked up a cheap, faded pink hair clip. The plastic was scratched. The paint was chipping.

Ten years ago, Eddie bought this for me. We were just kids. He took me to McDonald's, clipped this into my hair, and promised he would always protect me. I loved that boy with my whole heart. I spent a decade looking for that sweet boy in the selfish man he became. I used this cheap piece of plastic to blind myself to his disrespect.

I looked at my reflection in the mirror. My eyes were completely dry. There were no tears left to cry. The boy who bought me the pink clip was dead. The man who brought cheap wine to my parents and called another woman 'baby' in my hallway had killed him.

A deep, heavy exhaustion washed over me. It settled deep in my bones. I didn't feel angry anymore. I just felt tired.

I didn't want to fight for his attention anymore. I didn't want to compete with Catalina's fake tears and endless drama. I set the pink hair clip down on the cold glass of the vanity.

I picked up my phone. I would end this ten-year illusion. Peacefully, quietly, and with my dignity intact. It was over.