His Mistress Laughed About the Baby My Husband Killed

I didn't plan it. I wasn't thinking about consequences or witnesses or what came next. I just moved.

Yaretzi was still laughing into her phone when I crossed the distance between us. My hand closed around her arm. She turned, surprised, mouth half-open.

I slapped her.

The sound cracked across the fountain plaza like a gunshot.

Her head snapped to the side. Her sunglasses flew off and clattered against the stone. For a moment, everything stopped. The tourists. The water. The air itself.

Yaretzi's hand went to her cheek. She blinked. Then she looked at me. Really looked at me. Her eyes traveled down to my uniform, to my name tag, to my hands.

Her expression changed.

Recognition flooded in slow and cold. Her mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile.

"So you finally figured it out."

Her voice was soft. Almost kind. It made my skin crawl.

She straightened, still holding her cheek, and tilted her head like she was examining something fascinating under glass. "I wondered how long it would take. Graham said you were too stupid to ever put it together. I told him you'd figure it out eventually. Looks like I was right."

I didn't answer. I couldn't. My entire body was vibrating with something I didn't have a name for.

Yaretzi glanced over her shoulder and raised one hand. A signal.

A man appeared from behind a column. Tall. Built like a wall. He wore a dark suit and an earpiece. Private security. Marcus, probably. She'd mentioned him once on the phone.

He moved fast.

His hand locked around my arm and yanked me backward. I stumbled. He twisted my wrist behind my back and shoved me down. My knees hit the pavement first. Then my chest. Then my cheek pressed against the concrete.

The world tilted sideways.

I heard voices. Gasps. Someone shouted something about calling security. Footsteps scattered. A hotel employee in a burgundy vest rushed forward and pulled Kaysen behind a planter. The boy was crying now. Small, confused sobs.

I didn't struggle. I went still.

Completely, deliberately still.

Marcus's knee pressed into my spine. His weight was immense. I couldn't move even if I wanted to. But I didn't want to. I just lay there, cheek against the cold stone, and breathed.

Yaretzi's heels clicked closer. She crouched down beside me. Her knees bent gracefully, like she was posing for a photo.

She reached out and picked up my right hand. The one that had slapped her. She held it up in front of my face. Then she lifted her own hand beside it.

The contrast was obscene.

My fingers were cracked and red. The skin around my knuckles was rough and peeling. There were scars across my palm from where I'd burned myself on a hot pan last winter. My nails were short and uneven because I'd given up on manicures three years ago.

Her hand was perfect. Smooth. Pale. Every nail shaped and painted a soft blush pink. Diamonds glittered on three fingers. A tennis bracelet circled her wrist. The stones caught the sunlight and threw it back in sharp, mocking flashes.

She held our hands there. Side by side. For a long, deliberate moment.

"Look at this," she said softly. Almost gently. "Five years of scrubbing toilets, and your husband bought me these with every dollar you sent home."

She lowered our hands and shifted her weight. Her stiletto heel—sharp, expensive, lethal—pressed to the pavement beside my cheek. Not touching. Just close enough that I could see the pointed tip in my peripheral vision.

"You should be grateful," she continued. Her voice was calm. Conversational. "Graham could have just let you disappear. Other men would have. You know how many undocumented workers vanish every year? No one looks for them. No one cares."

She leaned in closer. I could smell her perfume. Something floral and expensive.

"But he kept you alive. He sent you those sweet little texts. He let you believe you were helping. He even pretended to be sad about the baby." She paused. "That was kind, don't you think?"

I stared at the concrete. At the thin crack running through the stone an inch from my face.

My mother's voice echoed in my head. Quiet. Steady.

*Never let anyone make you small.*

I exhaled slowly.

Yaretzi stood. Her heel scraped against the pavement as she stepped back. "Marcus, let her up. She's not going to do anything stupid. Are you, Blaire?"

The pressure on my spine released. I pushed myself up slowly. My palms stung. My knees ached. I stood and faced her.

She was smiling.

I looked at her. Then at Marcus. Then at the small crowd of tourists watching from a safe distance, phones half-raised.

Then I looked back at Yaretzi.

"I know everything," I said.

My voice didn't shake.

Her smile widened. "Good. Then you know there's nothing you can do about it."

I didn't answer.

Behind her, a black town car pulled up to the curb. The driver stepped out and opened the rear door.

Graham Hughes emerged.

He was in a suit. Charcoal gray. Perfectly tailored. His hair was combed back. His face was calm. Concerned. He looked like a man rushing to comfort his mistress after an unfortunate incident.

He looked at Yaretzi first. "Are you alright?"

She nodded and gestured toward me. "She attacked me. Out of nowhere."

Graham's gaze shifted.

Our eyes met.

And I watched the exact moment he recognized me.

The color drained from his face. His mouth opened slightly. His hand, halfway to Yaretzi's shoulder, froze in midair.

"Blaire?"

I smiled.

"Hi, honey."