When My Husband Protected His Pregnant Mistress Instead of Me

The townhouse was full of people. Hattie's winter dinner party—her annual December tradition, the one she'd been hosting for twenty-three years. White poinsettias on every surface. Candles in crystal holders. A bartender in a white jacket mixing cocktails by the fireplace. I stood near the window with a glass of champagne I hadn't touched and watched Gregory across the room.

He was laughing. Ophelia stood beside him in a cream cashmere dress, her hand resting lightly on his forearm. She said something I couldn't hear, and he leaned down to catch it. His face was warm. Relaxed. He looked at her the way he used to look at me.

Used to.

I pressed my thumbnail into my palm.

"Sasha." Ophelia appeared at my elbow. I hadn't seen her cross the room. "You look freezing. Are you feeling alright?"

"I'm fine."

"You're shivering." She tilted her head, concerned. "Come with me. I want to show you something that'll cheer you up."

I should have said no. But thirty people were watching, and Ophelia's voice was so soft, so kind. I followed her through the crowd, past the dining room, down the hallway to the back stairs.

"Where are we going?"

"The terrace." She glanced back with that sweet smile. "Hattie had the most beautiful lights installed this year. You can see the whole city. It's magical."

We climbed the narrow staircase to the third floor. She pushed open the terrace door, and cold air hit my face like a slap. I stepped outside. The city spread below us—towers of light against black sky. My breath came out in clouds.

"It's beautiful," I said.

I turned around.

Ophelia stood in the doorway. She was still smiling.

"I'm glad you think so," she said.

She stepped back inside and closed the door.

I heard the lock click.

For a moment I just stood there, staring at the glass. Then I walked over and tried the handle. It didn't move. I knocked. "Ophelia?"

No answer.

I knocked harder. "Ophelia, the door's stuck."

Through the glass I saw her silhouette descending the stairs.

"Ophelia!" I pounded on the door with both fists. "Come back!"

She didn't come back.

I pulled out my phone. No signal. The townhouse was old, the walls thick. I'd never gotten reception on the upper floors. I tried anyway, holding the phone up, moving to different corners of the terrace. Nothing.

The wind picked up. I wasn't wearing a coat. Just the silk blouse and wool skirt I'd chosen for the party. My arms were bare. I wrapped them around myself and looked at the door again.

Someone would notice. Gregory would notice I was gone. He'd come looking.

I sat down against the terrace wall, out of the wind, and waited.

The cold crept in slowly. First my fingers. Then my feet. My teeth started chattering. I stood up and paced, trying to keep my blood moving. I counted steps. I recited numbers—stock prices, revenue figures, anything to keep my mind working.

An hour passed. Maybe more. I'd stopped being able to feel my hands.

I went back to the door and pounded on it until my fists went numb. I screamed Gregory's name until my voice cracked. No one came.

The party sounds drifted up faintly—laughter, music, the clink of glasses. They were three floors below, warm and safe, and I was freezing to death on a rooftop terrace while my husband drank champagne.

I slid down against the wall again. My body was shaking so hard I couldn't control it. The shaking was good, I told myself. Shaking meant I was still warm enough to shiver. When the shivering stopped, that's when you were in trouble.

I thought about the wedding. The pig's blood. Gregory's face when he'd told me not to make it worse.

I thought about Ophelia's smile as she closed the door.

I pressed my thumbnail into my palm, but I couldn't feel it anymore.

The shivering slowed.

I closed my eyes.

Somewhere far away, I heard a door open. Footsteps. A woman's voice, sharp with panic. "Mrs. Carlson? Mrs. Carlson!"

Hands on my shoulders. Someone lifting me. The world tilted.

"Call an ambulance," the voice said. "Now."

I tried to open my eyes. Everything was white.

"Stay with me," the voice said. "Stay awake."

I didn't stay awake.

When I woke up, I was in a hospital bed. An IV in my arm. Monitors beeping. A nurse checking my vitals. My chest hurt when I breathed.

"Pneumonia," the nurse said when she saw me looking. "You're lucky. Another hour and we'd be having a very different conversation."

Gregory came that evening. He stood at the foot of the bed with his hands in his pockets.

"You should have been more careful," he said. "It's winter. You know better than to go outside without a coat."

I stared at him.

"Ophelia feels terrible," he continued. "She said she told you not to stay out there too long."

My voice came out hoarse. "She locked the door."

"Sasha." He sighed. "The door sticks sometimes. You know that. It's an old house."

"She locked it."

"Why would she do that?" His voice had an edge now. Impatient. "You're not making sense. The doctor said you might be confused for a few days."

He left after ten minutes.

I stayed in the hospital for two weeks. Gregory visited twice. Hattie called once to suggest I might want to "build up my constitution."

Ophelia sent flowers. White roses in a crystal vase. The card read: *Get well soon. I feel simply terrible about the misunderstanding.*

I kept the card.

I was building a file now, though I didn't know it yet. Evidence. Dates. Details. The things I would need when the time came.

Because I understood something now, lying in that hospital bed, my lungs burning with every breath:

This was not going to stop.

And no one was coming to save me.