My Fiancé Forced Me to Apologize to His Mistress

After five years at Oxford, I landed at JFK with one carry-on and my leather journal tucked under my arm. I had written Callahan's name in that journal more times than I could count. On the plane, I fixed my hair in the tiny bathroom mirror. I put on the pearl earrings he bought me when I was nineteen. I was sure he would be waiting at the gate.

He wasn't.

A young man in a gray suit held a small white sign. It said SHAW.

"Miss Shaw? I'm Tyler. Mr. Edwards sent me."

"Sent you," I repeated.

"He's busy getting ready for the gala tonight, ma'am. He said you'd understand."

I smiled the way my father taught me to smile. "Of course."

The car smelled like new leather and something sweet. Vanilla and jasmine. It was my perfume. I had worn it since I was sixteen. I didn't ask why it was in Callahan's car. I just pressed my thumb into my palm and watched Queens slide past the window. The sky hung low and gray. I told myself it meant nothing.

---

The Edwards estate in the Hamptons glowed that night. Lanterns lined the drive. A string quartet played on the terrace. And there were white roses everywhere. On the tables, on the stairs, wound around the pillars.

My chest went warm. White roses were ours. Callahan gave me my first one on the steps of the Met when we were seventeen. He promised me a wedding with so many roses I'd think it was snowing.

I found him by the fireplace. Callahan Edwards. The boy from next door. The heir to the Edwards empire. My fiancé for as long as I could remember. Tall, dark suit, that same sharp jaw.

There was a woman on his arm.

Her hair was honey-brown, parted on the left, like mine. Her dress was pale blue, like mine. Her earrings were pearls. For one dizzy second, I thought I was looking into a mirror.

"Callahan."

He glanced at me like I was a reminder on his phone. "You made it."

"You didn't come to the airport."

"I sent a car."

I turned to the woman. "I don't think we've met. I'm Adaline Shaw."

"Valery." She tilted her head. "Valery Morales." Even her voice sounded like mine. Just softer. Smaller.

"Miss Morales," I said quietly. "Why are you holding my fiancé's arm?"

Her eyes filled with tears in a heartbeat. Her lip shook. "I knew you'd hate me," she whispered.

Then her hand cracked across my face.

The quartet stopped mid-note. A glass broke somewhere. My cheek burned. I tasted copper.

Callahan didn't look at me. He pulled Valery into his chest and stroked her hair. His jaw went tight. I knew that look. I had calmed it a hundred times.

"Stop causing scenes, Adaline," he said.

"She hit me."

"You scared her."

Two hundred people watched me. Nobody moved. Valery peeked at me over his shoulder. Her eyes were wet. Her mouth was not sad at all.

I set my champagne glass on a passing tray. My hand didn't shake. I made sure of that. Then I turned and walked out through all those white roses, and I didn't look back.

---

In the back of the car, the road was black and empty. I opened my phone. Callahan's name was still at the top, a little rose next to it.

I scrolled past it.

There was one contact saved only as "Z." Emir Wagner. We sat in the same seminars at Columbia. He was quiet and careful, the kind of man who listened more than he spoke. Now he ran a tech company in Seattle. He gave me this number the night before I left for England. "For when things go wrong," he'd said.

I had called it twice in five years. Once when my grandfather died. Once on a night in Oxford I never talk about.

I pressed call.

He picked up on the first ring. "Adaline."

"I'm ready," I said. My voice cracked, and I hated it. "I'm ready to talk about the future."

The line went quiet for a long time. I heard him breathe.

"I'll be in New York by morning."

---

The café near my apartment was small and warm. Rain tapped the window. I got there ten minutes early.

He was already there.

Emir stood when he saw me. Dark coat, tired eyes, no tie. On the table sat a cup waiting at my seat. Oat milk latte. Extra shot. A little cinnamon on top.

Exactly how I take it. I had never told him.

I sat down and said nothing about it.

"You flew all night," I said.

"I was awake anyway."

"Seattle to New York isn't 'anyway,' Emir."

He turned his cup slowly. "You said the future."

"I said I was ready to talk about it. I didn't say I know what it is."

"Then start with what happened."

I wrapped my hands around the cup. "He brought someone. She looks like me. She wears my perfume." I laughed, and it came out wrong. "She slapped me, and he told me to stop causing scenes."

His eyes went to my cheek. There was still a faint red mark there. Something hard moved across his face, then disappeared.

"I have resources," he said. "Connections. People in place."

"In place," I said. "Already?"

He didn't answer that.

"Why would you do this for me?" I asked.

He held my gaze. For a second, I thought he would say something more. Then he looked down at the table.

"Whatever you need," he said. "No conditions."

"Everyone has conditions."

"Not with you."

Outside, across the wet street, a black car sat with its engine running. I didn't know how long it had been there. I didn't ask.

I just drank my coffee, and for the first time since I landed, my hands felt warm.