After My Husband Made Me Carry His Mistress’s Child

Wyatt stared at the stack of chips in the center of the table.

His eyes flicked down to my stomach. He waited. One second, two seconds, three. Nothing happened. The bourbon had done its job. The thing inside me was dead quiet.

Wyatt’s jaw tightened just a fraction. He looked across the felt at Lilith. She leaned forward, her red lips pressed into a thin, ugly line. She shook her head slightly.

Margaret cleared her throat. “Mercy, dear, two hundred is quite aggressive for a family game, don’t you think?”

“Just playing the hand I was dealt, Margaret,” I said, keeping my voice sweet and light.

Wyatt forced a chuckle. He leaned back and tossed his cards face down onto the felt. “You got me, babe. I fold.” He rubbed his hands together and stood up, smoothing his crisp white shirt. “You know what? I think my wife is carrying some tension tonight. And tension isn't good for our boy.”

He walked around the table with that polished, effortless smile he gave to wealthy clients. He stopped behind my chair and placed his hands on my shoulders. His fingers dug in just a little too hard.

“You remember our wedding reception?” he asked softly. “The ballroom at the Plaza?”

I looked straight ahead. “Of course I do.”

“We need to soothe the little guy,” Wyatt announced to the room. “Music always works.”

He walked over to the vintage turntable in the corner. He slid a vinyl record from its sleeve and set the needle down. The sharp, passionate violin strings of Carlos Gardel’s “Por Una Cabeza” filled the warm air.

Our first dance. The song we practiced for three months in an empty studio in Soho.

“Oh, Wyatt,” Margaret cooed, clasping her hands together. “You two were so breathtaking that night.”

Beside her, Lilith gripped her wine glass until the stem shook. She hated seeing him touch me. But she couldn't say a word without giving herself away.

Wyatt walked back to me and offered his open hand. “Dance with me, Mercy. For the baby.”

I looked at his manicured fingers. He looked like the prince I thought I married five years ago. I placed my hand in his. His skin felt clammy.

He pulled me up and guided me to the open hardwood space between the table and the Christmas tree. He pulled me close. Too close. His right hand rested against the small of my back, while his forearm pressed deliberately against the curve of my belly.

He took the lead, stepping sharply into the rhythm.

One, two, pivot.

He jostled me slightly with every turn. He wasn't dancing to hold me. He was bouncing his body against mine, trying to wake the sleeping fetus. He was trying to kick-start his little radio.

*Wake up,* his movements begged. *Wake up and give me the cards.*

Then came the dip.

Wyatt stepped forward, wrapped his arm tight around my waist, and bent me backward under the glow of the crystal chandelier.

I looked up into his face. His eyes weren't looking at mine. His gaze was glued to my sweater, watching for the telltale kick against the wool. His mouth was set in a hard, greedy grimace.

Right there, suspended beneath the glittering lights, something clicked into place inside my chest.

Our wedding night. The way he had held me. The tears I had cried when he whispered that I was his whole world. It had all been theater. He was using the most sacred memory I had in my life as a cheap tool to shake awake his mistress's bastard.

The last thread snapped. The girl who loved Wyatt Coleman died right there in that dip.

He pulled me back up. The song wound down to its final, mournful violin note.

I didn't pull away. Instead, I leaned up on my toes and gave him a bright, radiant smile.

“That was lovely, darling,” I whispered.

His eyes were hollow with frustration. Still no kicks. “Yeah. Lovely,” he muttered.

*Ding-dong.*

The front doorbell chimed through the brownstone.

Wyatt blinked, stepping back. “Who the hell is that on Christmas Eve?”

“I can check,” Rosa, the housekeeper, called out from the kitchen doorway.

“No need, Rosa, I’ve got it,” I said.

I walked past the Christmas tree and stepped into the foyer. I opened the heavy oak door.

Cold winter air rushed into the warm hall. Standing on the brownstone steps was Caspian Gray.

He wore a dark charcoal wool coat, dusted with fresh flakes of snow. In his left hand, he held a bottle of vintage Pinot Noir. In his right pocket was the tincture I needed. His broad shoulders blocked out the streetlights behind him.

He looked at me. His gray eyes were steady, calm, and completely focused.

“Merry Christmas, Mercy,” he said. His voice was deep and steady.

A wave of pure relief washed over me. I stepped back and opened the door wider. “Merry Christmas, Cas. Come on in.”

Caspian stepped inside and kicked the snow from his boots. Wyatt and Margaret appeared at the edge of the hallway, their faces full of suspicion.

“Mercy?” Margaret’s voice was like ice water. “Who is this?”

“This is Caspian Gray,” I said, turning to them with a warm, relaxed smile. “My oldest friend from Seattle. He was stuck in the city alone for the holidays, so I invited him to join our game. You always say Christmas is about hospitality, right Margaret?”

Margaret’s mouth tightened, but she couldn't argue. Not without looking cruel. “Of course,” she forced out. “Welcome to our home, Mr. Gray.”

Caspian handed her the wine with polite deference. “Thank you for having me, Mrs. Coleman.”

He turned to Wyatt. Caspian was half a head taller, his presence filling the hallway effortlessly. He extended his right hand.

“Wyatt, right? Good to finally meet you.”

Wyatt stared at him for a second, unsettled by the stranger's calm confidence. Slowly, Wyatt reached out.

“Yeah. Good to meet you.”

They shook hands. Caspian’s grip was firm, steady, and unyielding. The grip of a man who had studied the board, counted the outs, and was ready to take the entire table down.