After My Husband Had Me Arrested for His Mistress

Three weeks after our anniversary, I stood on a sidewalk in SoHo, watching photographers jostle for position. The grand opening of Poppy's boutique flower shop was today—a media event Elijah had personally financed. I hadn't planned to come. But Serena had called that morning, reminding me to keep up appearances while the divorce papers were being processed. 'Don't give him ammunition,' she'd said. So here I was, wearing a cream silk blouse and dark slacks, my hands tucked into the pockets of a tailored coat that suddenly felt too heavy.

The crowd surged forward as Poppy emerged from a sleek black car. She wore a flowing dress the color of fresh roses, her hair styled in loose waves that caught the afternoon light. Elijah stepped out behind her, his hand resting possessively on the small of her back. I pressed my thumbnail into my palm and watched them pose for the cameras.

The paparazzi shouted questions. 'Elijah! Is this your new business venture?' 'Poppy! How does it feel to open your own shop?' 'Are you two an item?'

Elijah's arm slid around Poppy's waist. 'We're just celebrating a friend's achievement,' he said smoothly. But his eyes lingered on her face, and his smile was the one he used to save for me.

I took a step forward. Just one. The crowd behind me pushed, and suddenly I was stumbling. Someone's elbow caught my ribs. I lost my balance, my heel catching on the uneven pavement. I fell hard, my palms scraping against concrete, my chin striking the ground. The taste of blood filled my mouth.

For a moment, I lay there, dazed. The cameras kept flashing, but none were pointed at me. I touched my lip and looked at my fingers. Red.

I looked up. Through the forest of legs and camera equipment, I saw Elijah. He was shielding Poppy from the press, his body curved protectively around hers as he guided her toward the shop's entrance. He hadn't seen me fall. Or he'd seen and didn't care.

No one helped me up. A few people stepped around me, careful not to make eye contact. I pushed myself to my feet, wiping the blood from my chin with the back of my hand. My blouse was stained. My palms were scraped raw. I stood there, alone in a crowd, and waited.

Twenty minutes later, Elijah emerged from the shop. He was checking his phone, his brow furrowed in concentration. This was my chance. I approached him, keeping my voice steady.

'Those documents you asked for,' I said, pulling a manila folder from my bag. 'They need your signature before Monday.'

He barely glanced at me. 'Which ones?'

'Just some paperwork for the Torres account.' I opened the folder and held out a pen. 'Two signatures. That's all.'

He took the pen, flipped to the flagged pages, and signed his name without reading a single word. His handwriting was bold, confident—the same handwriting that had once written love notes in my birthday cards.

'Thanks,' I said, sliding the folder back into my bag. 'I'll handle the rest.'

He was already turning away. 'Right. Good.' His eyes were on the shop door, where Poppy had appeared to wave him back inside.

I walked away. Flagged a cab. The driver looked at my split lip and didn't ask questions. I sat in the back seat and stared out the window as Manhattan slid past. In my bag, the divorce papers were signed. He'd never read anything I put in front of him. Not the contracts that built his company. Not the love letters I wrote in our early days. Not the papers that would end our marriage.

Two days later, Serena called. 'He's accusing you of harassment,' she said without preamble. 'He's saying you sent someone to threaten Poppy at her hotel.'

I closed my eyes. 'What?'

'She showed him a photograph. Some man outside her hotel room. She says you hired him to frighten her. She's playing the victim, Cecilia.'

I pressed my fingers to my temples. 'I've never—'

'I know. But he believes her. He always believes her.' Serena's voice was tight with anger. 'We need to fight this. Hard.'

I opened my eyes and looked at my reflection in the window. The cut on my lip was healing, but it still throbbed when I touched it. 'No,' I said quietly. 'Let him believe what he wants.'

'Cecilia—'

'I'm done fighting, Serena. Let him have his lies. Let him have her.' I touched the window glass, my finger tracing the outline of my reflection's jaw. 'I'm already gone.'