After My Husband Defended His Mistress Over Me

I fumbled for the phone in my purse. My hands were shaking so hard I almost dropped it.

"I can prove it," I said. My voice came out thin. Desperate. "I can show you. We're married. I have photos."

The crowd pressed closer. Waiting.

I unlocked the screen and opened the photo gallery. My fingers swiped fast. Too fast.

Scenic shots. A sunset over water. A city skyline at dusk. A plate of food at some restaurant I'd never been to.

I kept swiping. Faster.

More beaches. More buildings. A coffee cup on a wooden table.

No wedding photos. No pictures of me and Cain. Nothing.

My chest tightened. I couldn't breathe.

"I—" I looked up at the crowd. At the phones pointed at my face. "This isn't my phone. I grabbed the wrong one this morning. It's my husband's backup. That's why—"

"Sure it is," someone called out.

Laughter rippled through the crowd.

Solana held up her phone again. She scrolled slowly this time. Making sure everyone could see. Photo after photo. Cain's face next to hers. His arm around her shoulders. His lips on her cheek.

"I have hundreds," she said. Her voice was loud. Clear. "Hundreds of photos. Dates. Trips. Messages. Everything."

She turned to me. "What do you have?"

I stared at the phone in my hand. At the empty gallery that proved nothing.

"The wrong phone," someone near the back said. "That's the best she's got?"

More laughter. Harder this time.

I looked at Silas. At Genevieve. They stood beside me, silent now. Genevieve's hand was on Silas's arm. Her face was calm, but I could see the tightness around her mouth.

Silas's face had gone pale. Not just pale. Gray.

He pressed two fingers to his temple. Then his hand moved to his chest.

"Silas?" Genevieve's voice changed. Just slightly. The calm cracked at the edges.

He didn't answer. His breathing was shallow. Fast.

"Silas." Genevieve's hand tightened on his arm.

He tried to speak. His mouth opened. Nothing came out.

Then his legs buckled.

He went down hard. His knees hit the tile first, then his shoulder. The sound echoed through the terminal.

Genevieve dropped beside him. Her hands went to his face. "Silas. Silas, look at me."

I screamed.

I don't remember deciding to scream. It just tore out of me.

"Someone call 911!" I fell to my knees on his other side. My hands found his. They were cold. Too cold. "Please! Someone help!"

The crowd didn't move.

I looked up at them. At the circle of faces. At the phones still recording.

"Please," I said. My voice broke. "He's having a heart attack. Someone call for help."

A woman near the front shook her head. "Nice try."

"She's faking it," someone else said.

"Staging a medical emergency?" A man in a business suit laughed. "That's low even for a stalker."

Genevieve's voice cut through the noise. "This man is having a cardiac episode. If someone does not call for medical assistance immediately, he will die."

Her tone was ice. Absolute. The voice of a woman who had spent forty years in boardrooms.

But the crowd just stared.

Solana crossed her arms. "You people are really committed to this scam."

Shay stood beside her. Silent. Watching.

I looked at her. At my best friend of fifteen years.

"Shay," I whispered. "Please."

She looked away.

Silas's breathing was worse. Shallow and ragged. His eyes were half-closed. His hand in mine was limp.

Genevieve leaned over him. Her fingers pressed to his neck, checking his pulse. Her face was white.

"Elliott," she said quietly. "Find his nitroglycerin. It's in his bag."

I lunged for the carry-on beside us. My hands tore through it. Clothes. A book. His tablet.

No medication.

"It's not here," I said. My voice was rising. Panic clawed up my throat. "Mom, it's not here."

Genevieve's jaw tightened. She looked up at the crowd. "Does anyone have nitroglycerin?"

Silence.

Someone near the back was narrating into their phone. "The old man just collapsed. This is insane. #AirportHomewrecker is blowing up right now."

Another person laughed. "This is better than reality TV."

I pressed my forehead to Silas's hand. His skin was cold and damp.

"Please," I whispered. "Please don't leave me."

The crowd didn't move.

No one helped.

No one called.

We were alone on the floor of JFK International Airport, surrounded by hundreds of people, and we were completely alone.