My Ex-Husband Followed Me After Marrying His Mistress

The television made its noise in the background while I sat at the kitchen island, yellow legal pad open, pen hovering. Ethan had left for the city an hour ago. Riley was at school. The house was mine until three o'clock.

I was working through a scene transition when a voice from the TV snagged my attention. Bright. Practiced. Familiar in a way that made my stomach tighten.

I looked up.

Scarlet Munoz sat on a cream-colored talk show couch, legs crossed, smile wide. She wore a blush-pink blazer and spoke about resilience. About building a career through talent and determination. About being a self-made woman in an industry that didn't make anything easy.

The host nodded along, sympathetic and warm.

I watched for sixty seconds. I'd learned that was my limit.

Then I picked up the remote and turned it off.

The silence felt better. I pressed my thumb against the inside of my wrist and breathed. Once. Twice. The tightness in my chest loosened.

That life is over, I told myself.

I believed it most days.

***

The grocery store in East Hampton was the kind of place where organic heirloom tomatoes cost twelve dollars a pound and no one blinked. I liked it because it was quiet on weekday afternoons. I could think while I shopped.

I was weighing avocados when I heard my name.

"Celeste?"

The voice was warm. Too warm. The kind of warmth that had been rehearsed.

I turned.

Bryce Wagner stood at the end of the produce aisle, holding a basket with a single bottle of sparkling water inside. He looked exactly the way he always looked: tanned, expensive, pleased with himself. His shirt was linen. His watch caught the light.

He stared at me like I was a puzzle he hadn't expected to find.

"Celeste," he said again, walking closer. "Wow. I—what are you doing here?"

I set the avocado in my cart. "Shopping."

He laughed. It sounded confused. "No, I mean—here. In the Hamptons. Do you—" He paused, and I watched him work it out in real time. His eyes flicked over my jeans, my plain white t-shirt, my lack of jewelry. "Do you work around here?"

I looked at him. "I live around here."

"You live—" He stopped. Recalculated. "Are you working for a family? Like, as a—" He didn't finish the sentence, but the meaning hung there anyway.

A nanny. A housekeeper. Something that explained my presence in a neighborhood I shouldn't be able to afford.

I smiled. Not wide. Just enough. "Something like that."

Relief washed over his face. He'd solved it. "That's great," he said, and he sounded like he meant it. "Really. I'm glad you landed on your feet."

I picked up another avocado.

"I know things were hard after—" He waved a hand vaguely. "After everything. But it's good to see you doing okay."

I didn't correct him.

"If you ever need anything," he continued, "I mean it. I'm doing really well right now. The company's growing. I could help you out if—"

"I'm fine," I said.

He nodded quickly. "Of course. Of course. I just wanted to—" He smiled wider. "Actually, I'm getting married. To Scarlet. You probably saw."

"I saw."

"The gala's in two weeks. It's going to be incredible. We're doing it at the Plaza." He shifted his weight. "I'm really happy, Celeste. I think we're good together."

I put the second avocado in my cart. "That's nice."

He watched me. I could feel him trying to find something—anger, sadness, jealousy. Anything that would confirm I still cared.

I gave him nothing.

"Well," he said finally. "It was good seeing you."

"You too."

I pushed my cart toward the register. I didn't look back.

But I felt him watching.

***

I was unloading groceries at home when I noticed the car.

A black sedan. Parked just outside the gate.

I frowned. Kept unloading.

Ten minutes later, the doorbell rang.

I opened the door.

Bryce stood on my front step, hands in his pockets, looking around like he'd just walked into a museum.

"Celeste," he said. "This place is—" He let out a low whistle. "Who do you work for?"

I didn't move from the doorway. "You followed me."

"I was just—" He shook his head. "I was curious. This is a forty-million-dollar house, Celeste. Maybe more. Who lives here?"

I leaned against the doorframe. "I do."

He laughed. Not the warm laugh from the grocery store. Something sharper. "Come on."

"I'm serious."

His smile faded. He looked past me into the foyer—the marble floors, the chandelier, the staircase that curved up to the second floor.

"You live here," he said slowly.

"Yes."

"How?"

I didn't answer.

He stepped closer. His voice dropped. "Celeste. Did you—" He stopped. Started again. "Who's paying for this?"

I felt something cold settle in my chest.

"You don't have to do this," he said quietly. "Whatever this is. If some guy is—" He gestured vaguely at the house. "If you're with someone for money, that's not—"

"You should leave," I said.

"I'm trying to help you."

"I don't need your help."

"Celeste." He said my name like it was a reprimand. "You're better than this. You don't have to sell yourself to—"

"Mommy!"

Riley's voice came from behind me.

I turned.

She ran across the foyer, backpack bouncing, arms outstretched.

I caught her. Lifted her. She wrapped her arms around my neck.

"Hi, star," I said softly.

Bryce stared.

Riley looked at him over my shoulder. "Who's that?"

"No one," I said.

The front door opened wider.

Ethan stepped inside.