My Fiancé Took His Pregnant Mistress to the Maldives

The studio apartment was smaller than the walk-in closet I'd had at Craig's place. One room. A kitchenette that was really just a hot plate and a mini-fridge. A bathroom with a shower stall so narrow I had to turn sideways to wash my hair.

I didn't care.

I set my single bag on the floor and looked around. The walls were white. The floor was scratched hardwood. There was a window that faced a brick wall. The silence was so complete I could hear the building settling, the pipes groaning somewhere in the walls.

I sat on the floor with my back against the wall and waited for something to break inside me.

Nothing did.

I slept on the floor that first night. No sheets, no pillow. Just my coat rolled under my head. When I woke up, the light coming through the window was gray and thin. My back hurt. My lip was still swollen where it had split against my teeth.

I made coffee on the hot plate. No cream. No sugar. I drank it black and bitter and too hot.

Then I opened my bag and pulled out the journal.

It was leather-bound, the edges worn soft from years of handling. I'd started it in graduate school, back when Professor Mills used to say I had a mind that saw patterns no one else could see. Back when I still believed my name would be on the papers I wrote.

I opened it to the first page. My handwriting stared back at me, neat and precise. The date was eight years ago.

*Methodology for trace fiber analysis in post-mortem textile degradation.*

I flipped forward. Page after page of original research. Forensic techniques I'd developed. Analytical frameworks I'd constructed. Ideas I'd tested in the lab late at night when no one else was there.

None of it had my name on it.

All of it had Craig's.

I turned to a page dated four years ago. It was the methodology for a case that had made national news. A murder in Brooklyn. Textile evidence that everyone said was inconclusive. I'd found a way to isolate degradation patterns that proved the timeline the defense was claiming was impossible.

Craig had presented it at a conference in Boston. He'd gotten a standing ovation.

I'd watched from the back of the room.

I kept turning pages. Each one was a piece of my mind I'd handed over. Each one was a part of myself I'd let him take.

By the time I reached the end, my coffee was cold.

I closed the journal and set it on the floor beside me. I stared at the brick wall outside my window.

Six years.

Six years of telling myself it was love. That support was love. That making him shine was the same as shining myself.

I'd been so stupid.

No. Not stupid. That was Craig's word. That was the word he'd used when he shoved me into the wall.

I'd been afraid. Afraid that if I asked for credit, he'd leave. Afraid that if I stepped into the light, I'd be too much. Too loud. Too visible.

Afraid that I wasn't enough unless I made myself small.

I picked up my phone. It was an old model, the screen cracked in one corner. I scrolled through my contacts until I found the name I was looking for.

Professor Simon Mills.

I stared at it for a long time. My thumb hovered over the call button.

What if he didn't remember me? What if he did remember me and didn't want me back? What if six years was too long? What if I'd buried myself so deep I couldn't dig my way out?

I pressed call.

It rang three times. Then his voice came through, warm and familiar and exactly the way I remembered.

"Jade?"

My throat closed. I couldn't speak.

"Jade, is that you?"

"It's me," I whispered.

There was a long pause. Then I heard him take a breath, shaky and uneven.

"My God," he said. "Where have you been?"

"I've been—" I stopped. I didn't know how to finish that sentence. I'd been gone. I'd been erased. I'd been a ghost.

"I'm ready to come back," I said instead.

Another pause. Longer this time.

"I knew it," he said finally. His voice cracked. "I knew those papers weren't his. The methodology was too elegant. The voice was too—" He stopped. "It was you. The whole time, it was you."

I closed my eyes.

"Yes."

"Jade." His voice was fierce now. "The National Forensic Science Championship is in two months. I can arrange for you to serve as a special judge. It's a role reserved for the field's elite. Your name will be on the panel. Your face will be on the stage."

I opened my eyes. The brick wall outside my window looked different now. Less like a barrier. More like something solid I could push against.

"I'm ready," I said.

"Good." I could hear the smile in his voice. "I've been keeping your seat warm."

After we hung up, I sat on the floor for a long time. The journal was still beside me, its pages full of everything I'd given away.

I picked it up and held it against my chest.

I wasn't going to give anything away ever again.