When My Husband Protected His Pregnant Mistress Instead of Me

The ballroom was perfect. That's what I kept thinking as I stood at the center of the reception hall, surrounded by two hundred guests in designer gowns and custom tuxedos. Crystal chandeliers threw warm light across white marble floors. The tables were draped in ivory silk. Champagne flowed. A string quartet played something classical and expensive in the corner. Everything was exactly as Hattie Carlson had planned it.

I was Mrs. Gregory Carlson now. The ring on my finger felt heavy.

Gregory stood across the room, laughing with a group of his college friends. He looked good in his tuxedo—tall, polished, easy in his skin the way men who've never had to earn a room's respect always are. He caught my eye and raised his glass. I smiled back. My cheeks hurt from smiling.

"Sasha, darling." Hattie appeared at my elbow, her pale blue gown rustling. "You should circulate more. The Hendersons are asking for you."

"Of course," I said.

She looked me over with that expression I'd learned to recognize over the past year—the one that said I was acceptable, but only just. "The dress photographs well, at least."

"Thank you."

She drifted away before I could say anything else. I pressed my thumbnail into my palm and took a breath.

That's when I saw Ophelia.

She stood near the entrance in a white dress. Not ivory. Not cream. White. The exact shade of my gown. She'd told me she was wearing blush pink. I'd seen the dress she'd described over brunch two weeks ago, listened to her soft voice detail the lace sleeves and the modest neckline. Hattie had nodded approvingly and said it sounded lovely.

This was not that dress.

Ophelia's eyes met mine across the ballroom. She smiled—small, sweet, apologetic. She pressed her fingers to her lips like she'd just realized her mistake. Then she started walking toward me.

I should have moved. I should have turned and walked in the opposite direction. But my feet stayed planted on the marble floor, and I watched her approach with a feeling like cold water rising in my chest.

"Sasha!" She reached for my hands. Her voice was soft, breathless. "I'm so sorry. I know we said pink, but the boutique called last minute and said there was a mix-up with the order, and this was the only thing they had in my size, and I didn't want to miss your special day—"

"It's fine," I said.

It wasn't fine. Everyone in the room could see it wasn't fine. But what was I supposed to do? Make a scene at my own wedding reception?

Ophelia squeezed my hands. "You're so understanding. Gregory always said you were."

She let go and stepped back, and that's when I heard it—a faint creaking sound from directly above my head.

I looked up.

The bucket tipped.

The liquid hit me in a wave—thick, cold, reeking of copper and rot. It soaked through my hair, my veil, the bodice of my gown. It ran down my face and into my mouth. I tasted metal. My hands came up instinctively, and when I looked at my palms they were red. Dark red. The color of something dead.

The ballroom went silent.

I stood there, dripping, and for a moment I couldn't process what had happened. My brain kept trying to make sense of it. Champagne. Someone spilled champagne. Except champagne didn't smell like this. Champagne didn't coat your skin like oil.

Someone screamed.

Ophelia stumbled backward, her white dress somehow untouched. Her hand flew to her mouth. "Oh my God. Oh my God, Sasha—"

Gregory shoved through the crowd. He stopped three feet away from me, staring. His face had gone pale.

"Gregory," I whispered. My voice cracked. "I don't—what is this?"

He didn't answer. He turned to Ophelia instead. "Are you okay?"

She was crying. Delicate tears tracking down her cheeks. "I don't know what happened. I was just standing here and—"

"It's okay." Gregory pulled her into his arms. "It's okay. You're safe."

I watched him hold her. I watched him stroke her hair. I stood there in my ruined gown, covered in pig's blood, in front of two hundred people, and my husband comforted another woman.

"Gregory," I said again.

He looked at me over Ophelia's head. His expression was tight. Annoyed. "Sasha, don't make this worse."

"Make this worse?"

"People are staring. Just—go clean yourself up. We'll handle this."

Hattie appeared beside him, her face a mask of controlled fury. But she wasn't looking at Ophelia. She was looking at me. "The photographers are still here," she hissed. "Do you have any idea what this looks like?"

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.

Ophelia pulled back from Gregory, wiping her eyes. "It was just a prank," she said softly. "Some of the groomsmen thought it would be funny. I heard them laughing about it earlier, but I didn't think they'd actually—" Her voice broke. "I'm so sorry, Sasha. This is all my fault."

"It's not your fault." Gregory's voice was firm. Certain. "Sasha, Ophelia didn't do this."

I looked at him. Really looked at him. At the man I'd married four hours ago.

"I know," I said quietly.

I turned and walked toward the bridal suite. The crowd parted. No one spoke. No one helped. I left a trail of red footprints across the white marble floor.

Inside the suite, I locked the door. I peeled off the gown with shaking hands. The lace tore. I didn't care. I stood in front of the mirror in my slip, blood drying in my hair, and I pressed my thumbnail into my palm until I felt the bite of pain.

I did not cry.

I changed into the spare dress I'd brought—simple, navy, nothing like a wedding gown. I washed my face and hands in the sink until the water ran clear. I fixed my hair as best I could. Then I walked back out to the reception.

The music had started again. People were dancing. Gregory stood with Ophelia near the bar, his hand on her lower back, speaking quietly into her ear. Hattie was holding court at a table of older women, her voice carrying across the room.

I crossed to the Hendersons and smiled. "I'm so sorry for the delay. Hattie mentioned you were looking for me?"

Mrs. Henderson's eyes went wide. "Oh, Sasha, are you—"

"I'm fine," I said. "Just a silly accident. These things happen."

I stayed until the last guest left. I danced with Gregory's father. I cut the cake. I thanked everyone for coming. My face hurt from smiling.

No one in that ballroom understood what it cost me.

But I understood something else now, something cold and clear: I had just married a man who would never choose me.

And I had no idea yet just how much that was going to cost.