His Mistress, My Revenge

The salmon sizzled in the pan while their laughter drifted from the dining room. Each burst of Olivia's giggles felt like fingernails dragging across my scars. I arranged the asparagus with mechanical precision, my hands steady even as my mind replayed those photos—her lips on his jaw, his hands on her waist.

"Natalie, how much longer?" Logan's voice carried that edge of impatience I knew so well. "We're famished."

"Two minutes," I called back, adding a garnish of dill I knew he hated. Small rebellions were all I had left.

I carried out the plates, setting them down with practiced grace. The dining room glowed with candlelight—candles I'd bought for our anniversary last month, the dinner he'd missed for a "client emergency." Now I wondered if that client had blonde hair and a predatory smile.

"Oh." Olivia's nose wrinkled as she examined her plate. "Is this... farm-raised salmon?"

"Atlantic," I replied, taking my seat.

"Hmm." She pushed a piece around with her fork. "I suppose not everyone can tell the difference between wild-caught and... this." Her eyes flicked to Logan. "Remember that amazing sushi place in Tokyo? Now that was real fish."

"The one near the hotel?" Logan's face lit up. "God, that omakase was incredible."

They'd been to Tokyo. Together. My fingers tightened around my fork.

"You know," Olivia continued, sawing at the salmon like it was leather, "I tried to recreate their miso glaze once. Even with the exact ingredients, it just wasn't the same. I guess some people have the touch, and others..." She shrugged, letting the sentence dangle.

Logan chuckled. "Not everyone can be a chef, Liv."

Liv. He'd given her a nickname.

"The salmon's overcooked," Olivia announced, setting down her fork with a delicate clink. "And under-seasoned. It's like eating cardboard." She reached for her water glass, misjudged the distance, and sent it tumbling across the table.

Water cascaded over the tablecloth, pooling around the china—my grandmother's china, the set she'd brought from Italy. I lunged forward, but Olivia was already grabbing at the plates, ostensibly to help.

"Oh no! I'm so clumsy!" She lifted a dinner plate too quickly, too carelessly. It slipped from her fingers and shattered against the hardwood floor. The sound echoed through the penthouse like a gunshot.

"Shit," Logan muttered, but he was looking at the water on his pants, not the fragments of my family history scattered across the floor.

"I'm so sorry!" Olivia's eyes were wide with false innocence. But as I knelt to collect the pieces, I caught her reflection in the china cabinet's glass door. She was smiling.

"It's just a plate," Logan said, still dabbing at his trousers. "We have plenty more."

"Actually," I said quietly, cradling a shard painted with delicate roses, "this was from a set of twelve. Irreplaceable."

"Then maybe you should've used the everyday dishes." His tone was sharp, dismissive. "Honestly, Natalie, save the good china for people who appreciate it."

People who appreciate it. Not his wife. His mistress.

I stood slowly, pieces of broken porcelain cutting into my palm. "You're right. I should be more careful about what I value."

Olivia's smile widened. "Don't worry about dinner. I'm not really hungry anyway." She touched Logan's arm. "That late lunch filled me up."

They'd had lunch. While I was at home, preparing this meal, they were together. Again.

"Let me help clean up," Olivia offered, already moving toward the kitchen.

"No." The word came out harder than I intended. Both of them looked at me. "I mean, you're our guest. Please, relax. I'll handle it."

I spent the next hour cleaning—mopping water, collecting shards, scrubbing at stains that seemed to spread the more I worked at them. From the living room came the sound of Netflix, their comfortable murmuring, her occasional laugh. The domestic soundtrack of a couple.

When I finally emerged, they were sharing the cashmere throw I'd given Logan last Christmas, her head on his shoulder.

"All done?" Logan didn't look away from the screen. "Great. Olivia's tired. Show her to the guest room, would you?"

But Olivia was already standing, stretching like a cat. "Actually, Logan promised to show me that view from your bedroom balcony. He says it's spectacular at night."

My bedroom. Our bedroom. The one space that was still supposed to be mine.

"Maybe another time," I said. "It's getting late."

"Oh, don't be silly." She was already heading down the hallway, confident as if she lived here. "I'll just peek."

Logan followed without even glancing my way. I stood frozen in my own living room, listening to their footsteps, her delighted gasps at the view, his low rumble of response.

When they finally emerged, Olivia was wearing a satisfied smile. "You're so lucky, Natalie. That bathroom is to die for. The marble, the soaking tub..." She sighed dramatically. "My little studio barely has a shower stall."

"Tragic," I murmured.

"Well, goodnight!" She air-kissed Logan's cheek, letting her lips linger a moment too long. "Thanks for everything."

After she disappeared into the guest room, Logan turned to me. "Try to be nicer tomorrow. She's going through a tough time."

"Of course." I smiled, brittle as my grandmother's broken china. "What are friends for?"

But as I lay in bed that night, listening to him snore beside me, I wasn't thinking about friendship. I was thinking about that locked bathroom door, and how sometimes the smallest spaces could become the biggest battlegrounds.

Tomorrow, Olivia would learn that not every door would open for her.

No matter how hard she tried to force her way in.