After My Husband Chose the Mistress

I stood in the doorway of our bedroom, the divorce papers clutched in my hand like a shield. Garrett was lounging on the bed, scrolling through his phone with casual indifference. Three days had passed since Jennifer's pregnancy announcement at the gala, and I'd finally gathered enough courage to confront him directly.

"I want you to sign these," I said, my voice steadier than I expected. "The pregnancy changes everything. You need to let me go."

Garrett looked up slowly, his expression shifting from annoyance to something colder. He set his phone down and rose from the bed with deliberate grace.

"The pregnancy changes nothing between us," he said, taking the papers from my hand without looking at them. "You're still my wife, and you'll remain my wife."

"You're having a baby with another woman," I whispered, disbelief coloring my words. "How can you possibly expect—"

"I've known about the baby for weeks," he interrupted, walking past me toward his closet. He opened the door, revealing stacks of designer baby clothes, a custom crib catalog open on the shelf. "I've already started preparing a nursery in the east wing."

My stomach dropped. "In our home?"

"Our home," he confirmed, turning to face me with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Where else would my child live?"

I backed away, feeling the wall behind me. "And what about me?"

"You'll adapt," he said simply, as if discussing a minor change in dinner plans rather than the complete destruction of what remained of our marriage. "You always do."

* * *

"Good morning, loves!" Jennifer's voice echoed through the penthouse, bouncing off marble surfaces and finding me even in the sanctuary of my studio. "Day three of my Manhattan mornings, and I'm brewing some organic matcha in this gorgeous kitchen!"

She had moved in two days ago, bringing with her an arsenal of filming equipment—ring lights, microphones, tripods, and backdrop screens. What Garrett had described as "temporary" due to her morning sickness looked increasingly permanent with each passing hour.

I peered out from my studio doorway. Jennifer stood in my kitchen—our kitchen—her phone mounted on a tripod as she performed for her audience. She wore my silk robe again, her hair wrapped in one of my Turkish cotton towels.

"The daddy-to-be insisted I stay here where he can take care of me," she cooed, caressing her stomach. "Isn't he the most devoted man ever? Drop some hearts if you think we're relationship goals!"

I slipped back into my studio, closing the door silently. On my desk lay a leather-bound journal I'd purchased yesterday—nondescript, with a small lock. I opened it to the first page and began to write:

*October 15th: Jennifer moved into the east wing. Used my robe for morning livestream (8:15 AM). Referred to G as "daddy-to-be" and claimed he insisted she stay here. G purchased $3,200 crib from Restoration Hardware using our joint account (receipt attached).*

I carefully taped the printed receipt beside my entry, then took a screenshot of Jennifer's livestream, noting the timestamp and viewer count. This would be the first of many documented incidents—my insurance policy, my evidence, my silent rebellion.

By afternoon, Jennifer had colonized my sunroom, unrolling a yoga mat directly beneath the skylight where I used to read. Her livestream continued, now featuring prenatal yoga poses as she narrated the benefits to her unborn child.

"The natural light in this room is everything, loves! Perfect for my growing bump!"

I retreated to our bedroom—the only space Jennifer hadn't yet invaded—and opened my laptop. I navigated to my email and began composing a message to an address I hadn't used in years:

*Beckett,*

*I hope this finds you well in Seattle. The Manhattan autumn is particularly beautiful this year, though I find myself missing the Pacific Northwest more than usual. How is your tech venture progressing? I remember you mentioning expansion plans when we last spoke.*

*I've been considering a brief vacation soon, perhaps to reconnect with old friends and clear my head. Would Seattle be hospitable in November?*

*Warmly,*

*Blake*

I read it three times before sending, ensuring it revealed nothing while saying everything. Garrett monitored my emails occasionally—I couldn't risk being explicit. But Beckett would understand. He always did.

That evening, as I lay in bed listening to Jennifer's voice drift from my bathroom where she conducted her nighttime skincare routine, I added another entry to my journal. With each word I wrote, with each piece of evidence I collected, I felt something long dormant awakening within me—not hope, exactly, but something more dangerous.

Determination.