My Husband Adored His Mistress, so I Asked Her Out

The restaurant Eleanor had chosen was discreet, tucked away in a corner of the city where none of the Westbrook Corporation executives would stumble upon us. The maître d' led us to a private booth in the back, its high walls ensuring our privacy. Perfect for the conversation I had planned.

Lily Matthews sat across from me, her posture relaxed but her eyes alert. She'd agreed to meet me with surprising ease when I'd called her office that morning. Perhaps she was curious. Perhaps she was bored. Either way, she was here, sipping a glass of Sauvignon Blanc and watching me with calculated interest.

"Thank you for coming," I said, folding my napkin precisely on my lap. "I imagine you're wondering why I asked you here."

"Quinn," she said, her voice honey-sweet. "I'm always interested in what Seth's wife has to say."

The way she said "Seth's wife"—like it was a temporary title I was borrowing—made my lips curl slightly. "Then you'll be very interested in what I'm about to propose."

I leaned forward, lowering my voice even though we were alone. "I want out of my marriage to Seth. And you want him. Let's help each other."

Lily's perfectly arched eyebrow rose a fraction. "Excuse me?"

"This is a business transaction," I clarified, pulling an envelope from my purse and sliding it across the table. "Fifty thousand dollars. Cash. Today. With more to follow."

She didn't touch the envelope, but her eyes flickered to it. "And what exactly would I be paying for?"

"Not paying," I corrected. "Earning. I'm offering you insider information. Seth's schedules. His preferences. His insecurities." I tapped the envelope. "The first payment is just for agreeing to hear me out."

A ghost of a smile touched her lips. "You're either very desperate or very interesting, Quinn."

"Both," I admitted. "But mostly, I'm practical. We both know what we want. Why not work together?"

Lily took a long sip of her wine, studying me over the rim of her glass. "Go on."

"Seth is predictable," I said. "Every Tuesday, he has lunch at his club. Every Thursday, he works late because he hates going home to me. He keeps his passport in his desk drawer because he's always planning his next escape."

"And you're just... giving me this information?"

"I'm trading it," I corrected. "For your help in pushing him toward divorce sooner rather than later."

Lily's laugh was light, musical—the kind of laugh that made men lean in closer. "Why would I need your help? I've had him wrapped around my finger for years."

"Because he's still married to me," I said simply. "And as long as he is, you're the other woman. The mistress. The secret. Don't you want more than that?"

Something flashed in her eyes—calculation, hunger. She reached for the envelope, her manicured fingers brushing against mine as she took it.

"What exactly do you want from me?" she asked, her voice lower now.

"Accelerate your relationship with him. Make him choose you publicly, often. Create situations where he has to defend you to his family. Make him want you so badly he'll be willing to give me what I want in the divorce."

"And what do you want?"

"Freedom," I said. "And enough money to start over properly."

Lily opened the envelope, glancing at the stack of bills inside. Then she looked up at me, a new respect in her eyes.

"We have a deal."

---

"Twenty says they'll be divorced by Christmas," Chloe Vance announced, dropping a crisp bill onto my desk.

I smiled, adding her money to the growing pile. "That's quite the prediction, Chloe."

"It's just math," she shrugged, leaning against my cubicle wall. "Everyone knows how this ends."

Around us, the marketing department hummed with activity, but several colleagues had gathered near my desk, waiting their turn.

"Alright," I said, pulling out my spreadsheet. "Who's next?"

A betting pool on my own marriage might seem morbid to some, but I'd found it was the perfect cover for my true intentions. What better way to gather information than to encourage people to talk freely?

"I've got fifty that says it lasts until February," Marcus from accounting added.

"Ooh, optimistic," someone commented.

I entered the bet carefully, noting the amount and the prediction. "Anyone else?"

For the next twenty minutes, my colleagues placed their bets, gossiping freely as they did. I nodded sympathetically at their predictions, occasionally asking questions that elicited more information than they realized they were giving me.

By the end of the lunch hour, I'd collected nearly two thousand dollars and a wealth of insider knowledge about Seth's habits and preferences that even I hadn't known.

---

"He likes the 2015 Château Margaux," I told Lily over the phone that evening. "Not the 2016—he thinks it's too acidic."

"And this is useful because...?" Lily sounded skeptical.

"Because if you mention casually that you picked up a bottle for dinner, he'll be impressed that you know his tastes so intimately." I paused. "Also, he has a meeting with the Japanese investors next week. If you can find a way to be there..."

"How would I possibly—"

"He mentioned you were helping with the cultural sensitivity training for the Asia expansion," I interrupted. "This is your chance to prove how invaluable you are."

There was a moment of silence before Lily spoke again. "You're good at this, Quinn."

"I've had three years of observing him," I replied. "I know what makes him feel powerful, what makes him feel safe, what makes him feel seen."

"And what about what makes him feel loved?" Lily asked, her voice suddenly curious.

I laughed softly. "Seth doesn't know what love is. He only knows what he wants."

Later that week, I watched from across the conference room as Lily approached Seth during a break in the investor meeting. She held up a bottle of wine—the exact Château Margaux I'd mentioned—and said something that made his eyes light up with pleasure.

As they talked, she touched his arm gently, leaning in close enough that their shoulders brushed. The gesture was subtle but intimate, and I could see the effect it had on him immediately.

The game was in motion.

But as I turned away, my phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number: "Interesting business you're running, Mrs. Westbrook. Perhaps we should discuss terms."