When My Husband Protected His Pregnant Mistress Instead of Me

The Hamptons house was bigger than the townhouse. More rooms. More places to hide. More places to be cornered.

I stood on the back lawn with a glass of iced tea I didn't want, watching Gregory play tennis with his college roommate. The sun was hot. My skin felt tight. I'd been wearing long sleeves all weekend to cover the bruises on my arms—the ones I'd gotten three days ago when I'd tripped on the stairs. That's what I'd told the doctor. That's what I'd tell anyone who asked.

No one asked.

"Sasha!" Ophelia waved from the terrace. "Come see the peacocks. They're out by the enclosure."

I looked at Gregory. He didn't look back.

I walked across the lawn toward the stone terrace. Ophelia met me at the steps, linking her arm through mine. Her sundress was pale yellow. She smelled like jasmine.

"Hattie's been showing off her collection," she said. "You haven't seen it yet, have you?"

"No."

"Oh, you have to. It's extraordinary."

We walked past the pool, past the rose garden, to the far edge of the property where the manicured lawn gave way to wilder landscaping. A low stone wall enclosed a sunken area about ten feet deep. I could see movement inside—long, scaled bodies sliding over rocks.

Snakes.

"Gregory's father had it built," Ophelia said. "He collected exotic species. There must be twenty different kinds in there."

I stopped walking. "I don't like snakes."

"Oh, they're harmless." She tugged my arm gently. "Most of them, anyway. Come look."

We stood at the edge of the wall. The pit was deeper than I'd thought. The snakes moved slowly in the afternoon heat—thick bodies coiling and uncoiling, tongues flicking. One lifted its head and stared at me with black eyes.

I stepped back.

"Careful," Ophelia said. "The edge is crumbling. Hattie keeps saying she'll have it repaired."

I felt hands on my back.

A hard shove.

I didn't have time to scream. The ground disappeared. I hit the bottom hard, my ankle twisting under me, my palms scraping against stone. Pain shot up my leg.

Then I saw them.

They were everywhere. Sliding toward me. Over my shoes. Across my legs. I screamed and scrambled backward, but there was nowhere to go. The walls were smooth stone, too high to climb. A snake brushed against my arm and I screamed again, swatting it away.

"Help!" My voice cracked. "Somebody help me!"

I heard laughter.

I looked up. Gregory stood at the edge of the pit, hands on his knees, laughing. Really laughing. His face was red.

"Oh my God," he said between breaths. "Your face."

Ophelia stood beside him, her hand pressed to her mouth. Her eyes were wide. Concerned. "Gregory, help her up. She's terrified."

"It's just a joke." He wiped his eyes. "They're not venomous. Well, most of them aren't."

A snake slithered across my lap. I couldn't stop shaking.

"Gregory!" I screamed. "Get me out!"

He sighed and reached down. I grabbed his hand and he hauled me up, my ankle screaming with every movement. I collapsed on the grass, gasping. My hands were bleeding. My skirt was torn.

Hattie appeared on the terrace above, a martini glass in her hand. "What's all the noise?"

"Sasha fell into the snake pit," Ophelia said softly.

Hattie looked down at me. Her expression didn't change. "Really, Sasha. You have no sense of humor."

She turned and walked back inside.

Gregory pulled me to my feet. I winced. "Can you walk?"

"My ankle—"

"It's fine. You're fine." He let go of my arm. "Don't be so dramatic."

Ophelia touched his shoulder. "I'll get some ice."

She disappeared toward the house. Gregory looked at me, his jaw tight. "You're making a scene."

"I could have been bitten."

"But you weren't."

"Someone pushed me."

His eyes went cold. "No one pushed you. You lost your balance. Stop trying to blame other people for your own clumsiness."

He walked away.

I stood there alone, covered in dirt and blood, and I understood something with perfect clarity:

He would let me die before he'd question her.

That night, I locked myself in the guest bathroom and called an attorney. A woman in Manhattan I'd found through a private referral. I told her everything. The wedding. The terrace. The snakes.

"I want a divorce," I said.

"I'll have the papers drawn up," she said. "You can file Monday."

I filed Monday.

Tuesday morning, Gregory walked into the breakfast room where I sat with my coffee and a plate of untouched toast. He held the divorce papers in one hand. He didn't say anything. He just tore them in half. Then in half again. He dropped the pieces on the table in front of me.

"You're being dramatic," he said without looking up from his phone.

He walked out.

I stared at the torn paper. My hands were shaking.

I filed again two weeks later. Through a different firm. Bigger. More expensive.

Gregory's legal team blocked it within forty-eight hours.

I sat in my lawyer's office and listened to her explain that Mr. Carlson's attorneys had filed a counter-motion citing irreconcilable differences in the petitioner's mental state.

"They're saying you're unstable," she said gently. "They're asking for a psychiatric evaluation before the court will hear the divorce petition."

I pressed my thumbnail into my palm until I felt the bite of pain.

"How long will that take?"

"Months. Maybe longer."

I walked out of her office and stood on the sidewalk in the cold November air. People rushed past me. Taxis honked. The city moved around me like I wasn't even there.

I pulled out my phone.

I had one more option. One person I hadn't tried yet.

I scrolled through my contacts and stopped at a name I'd saved six months ago. A name Gregory never mentioned. A man who'd sent me a business card at a charity gala with a handwritten note on the back: *If you ever need anything.*

Enzo Carlson.

I stared at the name for a long time.

Then I pressed call.