After My Groom Ran to His Mistress Again

The video appeared on my phone at 11:42 PM. Someone tagged me in the comments. Then someone else. Then fifty more.

I clicked play.

Renata sat on the floor of the Tribeca penthouse bathroom. My old bathroom. The white tiles I'd picked out were visible behind her. Her left arm was wrapped in gauze, red seeping through the white fabric. Her face was blotchy and wet.

"I didn't want to do this," she said to the camera. Her voice shook. "I wanted to protect her. But people need to know the truth."

She unwrapped the gauze slowly. The burn underneath was angry and blistered, running from her wrist to her elbow.

"Ember Russell came to the apartment today." Renata's breath hitched. "She was so angry. She said if she couldn't have Ambrose, no one could. Then she—" A sob cut her off. She covered her face with her good hand. "She threw boiling water at me."

The video ended.

I watched it again. Then again. Looking for the tells. The performance. But Renata was good. Her tears looked real. Her fear looked real. Even the burn looked real.

Because it was real.

She'd hurt herself. Deliberately. Carefully. Angled the wound for maximum impact and minimum permanent damage.

I set my phone down. Picked it up. Set it down again.

The comments were already multiplying. *Psycho.* *Jealous bitch.* *Someone needs to lock her up before she kills someone.*

By midnight, the video had ten thousand shares.

By 2 AM, it was fifty thousand.

I sat at my kitchen table and watched my life catch fire.

Someone found my business email. Then my personal Instagram. Then my LinkedIn. The messages came in waves. *You're disgusting.* *I hope you die alone.* *Someone should do to you what you did to her.*

I turned off my phone.

Turned it back on.

A client had emailed. The couple with the nursery. *We've decided to go in a different direction. Please don't contact us again.*

Then another. The tech founder from Dumbo. *I'm terminating our contract effective immediately.*

Then another.

I opened my laptop. Checked my business account. Three more cancellations. All sent within the last hour. All with the same tone. Polite. Distant. Final.

I closed the laptop.

I didn't cry. Didn't scream. I just sat there in the dark and felt the walls closing in.

My phone buzzed. Elio.

*I saw. I'm coming over.*

I texted back: *Don't. It's late.*

*I'm already in the car.*

Twenty minutes later, he knocked. I opened the door. He stood in the hallway in sweatpants and a jacket thrown over a t-shirt. His hair was messy. His eyes were sharp.

"Pack a bag," he said.

"What?"

"You're staying at my place. Tonight. However long you need."

"Elio, I can't just—"

"Yes, you can." He stepped inside. Closed the door behind him. "Someone posted your address in the comments. It's not safe here."

I looked at him. At the set of his jaw. The way he stood between me and the door like he was already protecting me from something I couldn't see yet.

"Okay," I whispered.

I packed quickly. Clothes. Laptop. My grandmother's ceramic teapot. Elio carried my bag down to the car. We drove through empty streets. I watched Brooklyn turn into Manhattan. Watched the buildings get taller and the streets get quieter.

Elio's townhouse was dark except for one light in the kitchen. He led me upstairs to a guest room. Clean sheets. Soft pillows. A window that faced the garden.

"Try to sleep," he said.

I nodded.

He turned to leave.

"Elio?"

He stopped in the doorway.

"Thank you."

He looked back at me. "You don't have to thank me for this."

I sat on the edge of the bed after he left. Turned on my phone one more time.

The video had two hundred thousand shares.

I turned the phone off. Set it face-down on the nightstand.

I didn't sleep.

I sat in the dark guest room touching my grandmother's jade pendant. Pressed it into my palm until it left an imprint in my skin. A small crescent. Proof that I was still here. Still solid.

The letter from Ambrose's lawyer arrived the next morning. Thick cream paper. Expensive letterhead.

Elio brought it to me in the kitchen. I was drinking coffee. Trying to. Mostly just holding the mug.

I opened the envelope.

*Dear Ms. Russell,*

*My client, Mr. Ambrose Cunningham, has authorized me to reach out regarding the incident involving Ms. Renata Mendoza. Given the severity of Ms. Mendoza's injuries and the public nature of this matter, Mr. Cunningham believes it would be in everyone's best interest if you issued a public apology and sought professional counseling for anger management before this situation escalates further.*

*Mr. Cunningham wants to handle this matter privately and amicably. However, if you are unwilling to take responsibility for your actions, Ms. Mendoza may have no choice but to pursue legal remedies.*

*Please contact this office within 48 hours to discuss next steps.*

I read it twice.

Then I set it down on the kitchen counter.

"Ember?" Elio's voice was careful.

I looked up at him. At his face. At the concern there. The anger he was holding back for my sake.

"I see," I said quietly.

Two words. That was all.

But they meant everything.

I saw exactly who Ambrose was. Who he'd always been.

And I was done waiting for him to see me.