After My Husband Chose the Mistress

The elevator doors opened to the executive floor of Thomas Enterprises, and I stepped out with a manila folder clutched against my chest. Important acquisition documents Garrett had left at home this morning—documents I knew he needed for his 2 PM meeting. Despite everything, some part of me still functioned on autopilot, still played the role of dutiful wife.

I heard her laugh before I saw them—that practiced, melodic giggle Jennifer used whenever cameras were around. As I rounded the corner to Garrett's office, the sight stopped me cold.

Jennifer perched on the edge of my husband's desk, her skirt riding high on her thighs. Between her manicured fingers, she held a plump strawberry, dangling it teasingly above Garrett's waiting mouth. Her other hand held her phone at the perfect angle, capturing both their faces in frame.

"And this is how I feed my man after his morning meetings," she cooed to her audience. "He works so hard, doesn't he, loves? Drop some hearts in the comments if you think he deserves these organic strawberries I had specially delivered!"

Garrett's hand rested possessively on her thigh, his thumb making small circles on her skin. He hadn't noticed me standing in the doorway—his eyes were fixed on Jennifer with an intensity he hadn't directed at me in years.

"Five hundred thousand followers now," Jennifer announced, glancing at her screen. "They all want what I have."

"What we have," Garrett corrected, finally taking the strawberry between his teeth.

I cleared my throat. Neither of them startled—as if my presence was so inconsequential it didn't warrant surprise.

"The Westlake documents," I said, holding up the folder. My voice sounded hollow, detached, as if coming from someone else.

Jennifer's eyes met mine, a slow smile spreading across her face. "Oh look, an interruption." She turned back to her phone. "This happens all the time, loves. Jealous people always trying to steal our moments."

She swung her legs off the desk, deliberately knocking into my hands as she did. The folder slipped from my grasp, papers scattering across the polished floor like fallen leaves.

"Oops," she said, not bothering to hide her satisfaction. "So clumsy."

I knelt to gather the documents, my cheeks burning. Garrett didn't move to help. He didn't even acknowledge what had happened, his hand still resting on Jennifer's hip as she continued her livestream.

"And this is why I always say organization is key, loves. Some people just can't keep it together."

I collected the papers with trembling hands and placed them on the corner of Garrett's desk. He didn't look at me. Not once.

* * *

I discovered the Instagram posts while waiting for my coffee to brew the next morning. My phone pinged with a notification—a mutual acquaintance had tagged me in a comment. Curious, I opened the app and froze.

There was Jennifer, draped in my clothes, posing in my closet. My Chanel bags arranged artfully behind her, my Louboutins on her feet.

"Upgrading my style with better taste," read the caption. "Sometimes you need to show a man what he's been missing."

I scrolled through her stories with growing horror. Jennifer lounging in my reading nook. Jennifer trying on my jewelry. Jennifer opening my skincare products.

And then—a punch to the gut—Jennifer in my wedding dress.

She'd found it in the back of my closet, preserved in its garment bag. The dress I'd spent months selecting, the dress that represented promises now broken beyond repair. She posed in our bedroom—our bedroom—with a bouquet of flowers clearly taken from the arrangement in our foyer.

"Trying on my future," the caption read.

My coffee sat forgotten as I sank to the kitchen floor, phone clutched in my hand. How had she gotten into our home? Had Garrett given her a key? Or had he brought her there himself, laughing as she played dress-up with the remnants of my life?

* * *

The annual Thomas Foundation Charity Gala was in full swing, crystal chandeliers casting a warm glow over Manhattan's elite. I sat at our designated table, mechanically sipping champagne I couldn't taste. Garrett had disappeared twenty minutes ago, presumably to find Jennifer.

The auctioneer's voice echoed through the ballroom. "And now, ladies and gentlemen, we have a special announcement before we continue with our next item."

The spotlight swung to the stage where Jennifer stood, resplendent in a form-fitting silver gown. Garrett joined her, his expression unusually soft as he took her hand.

"We couldn't think of a more perfect moment to share our joy," Jennifer announced, her voice amplified through the microphone. "Garrett and I are expecting!"

A collective gasp, followed by applause. Jennifer took Garrett's hand and placed it on her still-flat stomach, her eyes glistening with perfectly timed tears. Cameras flashed, capturing the moment for tomorrow's society pages.

I sat frozen, champagne flute suspended halfway to my lips. Three years ago, I'd told Garrett about my pregnancy in the privacy of our home, my heart full of nervous excitement. He'd nodded distractedly, asked if it would interfere with the dinner party we were hosting the following month, then returned to his emails.

Two weeks later, when I lost the baby, he'd been in Chicago for business. "These things happen," he'd said over the phone. "We can try again when you're less stressed."

Now, watching his face illuminate with joy as he caressed Jennifer's stomach before hundreds of witnesses, something inside me finally, irrevocably broke.

Around me, guests offered congratulations, champagne glasses clinked, and the auction continued. No one noticed as I slipped away from the table and out of the ballroom, leaving behind the last shreds of hope I'd foolishly clung to.