After My Husband Took Our Son to His Mistress

Damon's fingers hovered over his phone, hesitating before he pressed the call button. It was late—past midnight in New York, which meant it was already morning in Paris. He'd been dialing my number for days, each attempt met with the same automated response.

"The number you have reached is no longer in service. Please hang up or try again later."

He slammed his phone down on the marble countertop, the sound echoing through the empty penthouse. I imagined him running his hand through his hair—a rare gesture of frustration he'd never allowed me to see.

"She can't just vanish," he muttered to himself, reaching for his laptop.

I knew what he was doing. Checking my credit cards. Seeing if I'd made any purchases that might reveal my location.

He scrolled through the statements, his brow furrowing deeper with each swipe of his finger. Zero activity. Not a single charge since I'd left.

"Impossible," he whispered.

Next, he logged into our joint account. The cursor blinked beside the balance—still intact except for the small withdrawal I'd made. My personal savings, barely enough to survive a month.

"She didn't even take the money," he said aloud, confusion coloring his voice.

He reached for his phone again, this time dialing a number he knew by heart.

"Mother," he said when she answered, "Angelina's gone."

Mrs. Stone's voice crackled through the speaker, dismissive as always. "Let her run, Damon. She'll be back when she gets hungry."

"She's not using her cards," he insisted. "She's not accessing any accounts."

"Then she's being dramatic," Mrs. Stone replied with a sigh. "She'll realize soon enough that the world outside our doors isn't kind to little girls who throw tantrums."

Silence stretched between them before Damon spoke again, his voice lower. "What if she doesn't come back?"

For the first time in seven years, I heard something new in his voice—fear.

* * *

The Atelier Rosetti occupied a narrow building wedged between a patisserie and a bookstore in Montmartre. The bell above the door jingled as I pushed it open, clutching my portfolio of sketches.

"Bonjour," I called softly, peering into the workshop.

Elena Rosetti looked up from her cutting table, her silver-streaked hair pulled into a practical bun. Her eyes—sharp and assessing—took in my simple clothes and nervous posture.

"Are you the new girl?" she asked in accented English, wiping her hands on her apron.

"Yes. I'm Angelina."

She nodded once, then turned to a rack of half-finished garments. "You're late."

"I'm sorry, I got lost—"

"No excuses," she cut me off. "In this business, either you have passion or you have punctuality. Ideally both."

I swallowed hard, clutching my portfolio tighter. "I have passion."

"Everyone says that." Elena's voice was skeptical as she handed me a pin cushion. "Prove it."

For three hours, I worked in silence, pinning hems and making small alterations under Elena's critical gaze. My fingers remembered what my mind had forgotten—the rhythm of the work, the satisfaction of a perfect seam.

"Stop," Elena said suddenly, striding toward me. "What are you doing?"

I looked up from the vintage lace gown I'd been repairing. "The original stitching was too rigid. I'm using a variation of the soutache technique to give it more movement."

She leaned closer, examining my work with narrowed eyes. "Where did you learn this?"

"I made it up," I admitted. "The fabric needed to breathe."

Elena's expression shifted—the first crack in her armor of skepticism. She touched the lace gently, feeling the difference in texture.

"Show me more," she commanded.

I reached for my portfolio and spread my sketches across the table—designs born from napkins and scraps of paper during sleepless nights in the penthouse.

Elena's fingers traced each line, her face unreadable. Finally, she looked up at me.

"You're not just some rich girl playing at being an artist," she said.

I shook my head. "I'm not playing."

"No," she agreed, something like respect flickering in her eyes. "I don't believe you are."

* * *

One month later, chaos reigned in the Stone penthouse.

Damon stood in his kitchen, staring at the espresso machine as if it were a foreign object. The staff had prepared his coffee wrong again—too hot, too bitter, nothing like the perfect cup I'd learned to make during seven years of trying to please him.

"Sir?" The housekeeper approached cautiously. "Is something wrong?"

"No," he snapped, then sighed. "Yes. Everything is wrong."

Upstairs, Shiloh sat alone in his room, chess pieces scattered across the board. He hadn't touched them since I'd left.

"Shiloh?" Marlowe's voice drifted through the hallway as she approached his door. "I've hired someone to redecorate your mother's—I mean, the east wing. I thought we could choose new colors together."

Damon emerged from his study, his face darkening at the sound of Marlowe's voice. "What are you doing?"

"Just trying to help," she replied, her smile not reaching her eyes. "The penthouse feels so... drab lately."

"Get out," he said quietly.

"Damon—"

"GET OUT!" His voice echoed off the marble walls.

After she left, he closed the door to his study and pulled out his phone once more.

"Find her," he told the private investigator on the other end. "Whatever it costs."

He sank into his chair, suddenly aware of how little he knew about the woman who had shared his bed for seven years. No friends he recognized. No habits he could track. No place to start looking except the city where she'd always dreamed of going.

Paris. A city of rebirth.

"Find her," he repeated, his voice breaking slightly. "Before it's too late."