Mistress's Costly Affair

I couldn't sleep. The image of Heidi in my pose, wearing my expression, haunted me. By Wednesday, my rage had built to a breaking point. I knew Adrian would be at a collector's meeting downtown—he'd mentioned it casually, as if my presence was no longer required at these events.

The drive to his studio was a blur. My hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles turned white. I didn't call ahead. This wasn't a social visit.

I found the studio door unlocked. Of course it was. Adrian never locked it anymore—not since Heidi started posing for him.

She was there, lounging on the chaise lounge like she owned it. My chaise lounge. The one Adrian had bought specifically for our portrait sessions.

"Oh," she said, not bothering to sit up. "Maeve. Adrian's not here."

I noticed she was wearing his silk robe—the deep burgundy one he'd bought me after our first anniversary. The fabric draped over her body in familiar folds.

"That's my robe," I said quietly.

"Adrian said you wouldn't mind." She smiled, all teeth and no warmth. "He said you've moved on to other things."

The lie was so blatant it stole my breath. I looked around the studio—my studio, where I'd spent countless hours as Adrian's muse. Now it was filled with sketches of her. Heidi Riley, in my poses, wearing my expressions.

"Get out," I whispered.

"Excuse me?" She sat up, finally, her eyes narrowing.

I grabbed her designer dress from the chair where she'd carelessly tossed it. "Get. Out."

"You can't—"

I heard the fabric tear before I realized what I'd done. My hands were shaking, ripping the expensive material down the middle.

"How dare you!" I screamed, my voice echoing off the high ceilings. "You're destroying a marriage! You're stealing another woman's life!"

Heidi scrambled to her feet, the robe falling open. "You're pathetic," she spat, lunging for the torn dress. "Adrian told me all about you—how frigid you are, how you've become artistically irrelevant."

I slapped her. The sound cracked through the studio like a whip.

"Don't you dare speak about my marriage," I hissed.

She clawed at my face, her nails drawing blood. "He's done with you! He told me everything—how you couldn't inspire him anymore, how you're holding him back!"

We grappled, her fingers tangled in my hair, my hands pushing against her shoulders. The robe slipped completely, and she didn't bother to cover herself.

"Adrian!"

His voice cut through our struggle like ice. We both froze.

He stood in the doorway, his expression unreadable. Behind him, several collectors peered in with uncomfortable fascination.

"Maeve," he said, his voice deadly calm. "What are you doing?"

I expected him to defend me. To see through her lies. Instead, he moved to Heidi's side, draping his jacket around her shoulders.

"This is my sacred creative space," he said coldly. "You need to leave. Now."

I stared at him, disbelieving. "Adrian..."

"And don't come back uninvited." He turned to the collectors. "I apologize for the disruption. My ex-wife can be... unstable."

Ex-wife. The word hit me like a physical blow.

---

Two weeks later, I sat on the edge of our bathtub, staring at the plastic stick in my hand. Two pink lines. Clear and undeniable.

Pregnant.

After three years of trying, of temperature tracking and fertility treatments and disappointment, I was carrying Adrian's child.

Hope bloomed in my chest for the first time in months. This could save us. This could bring him back to me.

I spent the afternoon preparing. I cooked his favorite meal—lobster risotto with saffron, just like our wedding dinner. I lit candles around our dining room, their glow reflecting off the glass covering my portraits.

I wore the black dress I'd worn to our first gallery showing together. The one he'd said made me look like a goddess.

"Perfect," I whispered to myself, arranging the last candle. "Everything has to be perfect."

I waited. Seven o'clock came and went. Then eight. Then nine.

At nearly ten, I heard the front door open. Adrian's footsteps, accompanied by another set—lighter, quicker.

"Maeve?" His voice called out, surprised.

I stepped into the foyer, my heart pounding. "I made dinner."

Adrian stood there with Heidi clinging to his arm. She was laughing, her head thrown back in that familiar way.

"Oh," he said, noticing my dress, the candles, the careful arrangement. "You shouldn't have waited up."

Heidi's hand slid possessively over her stomach. "Adrian has some news," she said, her eyes gleaming with triumph.

I looked at Adrian, desperately seeking some sign, some hint that this was all a mistake.

"Heidi's pregnant," he announced, his hand moving to rest on her belly. "With my child."

The room seemed to tilt around me.

"I've decided to pursue a future with her," he continued, his voice distant through the roaring in my ears. "She represents my artistic rebirth."

Around Heidi's neck gleamed my favorite necklace—the one Adrian had claimed was lost months ago.

"Congratulations," I whispered, my hand unconsciously moving to my own stomach, where our child grew unseen.