After My Husband Chose His Mistress Over My Mother

The ballroom at The St. Regis was a sea of black silk and glittering diamonds.

Crystal chandeliers hung from the high ceiling, casting a harsh, bright glare over everything. Champagne glasses clinked. Soft jazz drifted from a quartet in the corner.

I stood near the heavy double doors, smoothing down the front of the beige dress. The fabric felt stiff and cheap against my skin. It hung loose on my shoulders and hit my calves at an awkward length. Every woman in the room wore designer gowns cut to perfection. I looked like a ghost dressed in cardboard.

As I stepped onto the polished marble, the whispers started.

"Is that Sasha Larson?"

"I heard the wedding was a mess."

"Look at her. She looks terrible."

Heads turned. Eyes flicked over me, sharp and cold. Nobody came over to greet me. Two days ago, these same people had raised their glasses to my future. Now, they parted like I was carrying an infection.

Across the ballroom, I saw them.

Gregory stood beneath the largest chandelier. He wore a custom Tom Ford tuxedo, holding a glass of Scotch. Beside him stood Dior.

She wore a strapless emerald gown that flared at the waist. Her dark hair was pinned up with diamond clips, exposing the delicate curve of her neck. From a distance, she looked so much like me it made my breath hitch. She leaned against Gregory’s arm, laughing softly at something he said.

A few feet away sat Madeleine Austin, Gregory’s grandmother. She wore her signature pearl earrings, sipping from a glass with a calm, bored expression. She saw me. Our eyes met for half a second. Then she looked away, smoothing a napkin over her lap.

My chest tightened. I thought of my mother lying in the ICU at Mount Sinai. I thought of the steady, hollow beep of the heart monitor.

*One apology,* I told myself. *Just say the words, and Robin gets her surgery.*

I tightened my hand into a fist, feeling my fingernails dig into my palm. Then I walked across the room.

The space between us felt endless. With every step, my heels clicked loudly against the floor. Gregory saw me coming. A slow, cruel smile touched the corner of his lips. He didn't move an inch to meet me. He just waited, letting the whole room watch my walk of shame.

I stopped two feet in front of them. The smell of his cologne—expensive sandalwood—hit me like a slap.

Dior tilted her head. Her dark eyes were bright with triumph. "Sasha," she purred. "You came. And in such an... interesting choice of clothing."

Gregory took a slow sip of his Scotch. "You're late, Sasha," he said quietly. "We're waiting."

The room around us grew deathly quiet. Conversations stopped. Manhattan’s wealthiest families turned their backs on the bar to watch.

I swallowed the bile rising in my throat. My throat felt dry as sand.

I looked straight at Dior. I kept my chin up, refusing to let my voice tremble.

"I apologize, Dior," I said. The words tasted like ash. "I was out of line when I spoke to you at the penthouse. I am sorry for any disrespect."

The silence in the room stretched. It was done. I had bowed my head. I had given Gregory his victory.

I turned my eyes to Gregory. "Call Dr. Webb. Wire the money."

Gregory didn't move.

Dior let out a tiny gasp. Her eyes went wide with sudden, dramatic terror.

Before I could blink, she took a wild, clumsy step backward. Her heels caught on the edge of her skirt. She stumbled, knocking her elbow against a silver tray on a passing waiter’s arm. Glasses rattled.

Dior dropped to one knee, clutching her left cheek with both hands.

"Why would you do that?" she cried out, her voice echoing off the marble pillars. Tears sprang to her eyes instantly. "I only wanted to welcome you! Why did you hit me?"

I froze. "What?"

"You pushed me!" Dior sobbed, trembling on the floor. "Gregory, she shoved me!"

The room gasped. Murmurs broke out like a wave of static.

"I didn't touch her," I said. My voice rose, sharp with panic. I looked around at the circle of faces staring at me. "I didn't even step closer! She staged that!"

Nobody said a word. Nobody stood up for me. Vivienne Holt, a girl I had known since childhood, quickly looked down at her shoes.

Gregory didn't check the room. He didn't look for cameras. He didn't ask a single question.

His face turned to stone. He set his Scotch down on a nearby table with a loud *crack*.

"That's enough, Sasha," Gregory said. His voice was cold, carrying easily over the stunned crowd.

"Gregory, she’s lying!" I cried, my heart pounding against my ribs. "Look at her! I never laid a hand on her!"

"I told you to show respect," he said, stepping right into my space. "Instead, you bring your jealousy into my family's gala. You act like an animal."

He reached out.

His hand moved fast, grabbing the small jade pendant resting at the base of my throat.

"No!" I gasped, grabbing his wrist. "Gregory, don't! That was my grandmother’s!"

"You don't deserve to wear heirlooms," he whispered.

He didn't hesitate. He jerked his hand back with brutal force.

The thin gold chain snapped. The metal bit sharply into the skin of my neck, leaving a stinging red welt. The pain flared instantly.

I reached out blindly to grab the stone, but Gregory was already turning away.

He bent down beside Dior, offering her his hand. He pulled her up gently, wrapping an arm around her trembling waist.

Then, right in front of two hundred people, Gregory took my grandmother's jade pendant and pressed it into Dior’s open palm.

"Don't cry," Gregory told her, his voice loud and clear for the whole room to hear. "Keep this. Consider it compensation for your distress."