My Husband Chose His Mistress Over Our Dying Son

The alarm on my wrist—a cheap digital thing Marcus gave me—vibrates at 4 AM. I'm already awake. Sleep doesn't come easy when your lungs feel like they're filling with glass.

I dress in the gray uniform in the dark. The fabric scratches against the scars on my back, the ones Christopher hasn't seen yet. Hasn't asked about. The storage room smells like cardboard and Holly's perfume, that cloying jasmine scent seeping through the walls from the master bedroom.

The penthouse at this hour is a study in shadows and steel. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame Manhattan's pre-dawn glow, all those tiny lights like stars that fell and forgot how to rise. I used to watch this view from a different angle, from the passenger seat of Christopher's car, his hand warm on my thigh as we drove home from charity galas.

I fill the bucket in the utility closet. The water runs cold, then scalding. I choose cold. Pain keeps you present.

The marble floor of the main living area stretches out like a frozen lake. I kneel, feeling my kneecaps protest against the hard surface, and begin to scrub. The brush is stiff-bristled, industrial. It's meant for grout, not the polished stone, but no one's given me the right tools. Maybe that's the point.

My shoulders burn within ten minutes. By twenty, my vision blurs at the edges. I pause, press my sleeve to my mouth, taste copper. The handkerchief comes away with a small red bloom. I fold it quickly, tuck it in my pocket with yesterday's stains.

Footsteps.

I don't look up. Looking up implies I have the right to acknowledge his presence.

Christopher's bare feet enter my field of vision. I know they're his by the gait, that confident stride that used to cross beaches to reach me. Now they stop six inches from my hand.

"You missed a spot."

His voice is granite in the quiet. I shift slightly, angling toward where his toe points. My hand shakes as I scrub the already-clean marble.

He moves past me toward the kitchen. I hear the espresso machine hiss to life, the cabinet opening, the clink of a cup. Normal sounds. Domestic. As if I'm not here on my knees between him and his coffee.

Then his footsteps return.

I see it happening in slow motion—his foot connecting with the bucket's rim. Dirty water erupts across the floor, across my uniform, soaking through to my skin. The cold shocks my system. I gasp before I can stop myself.

"Filth," Christopher says, and the word lands heavier than the water. "You track it everywhere you go. Clean it up. Then bring my coffee to the study. Black, no sugar. You remember that much, don't you? Or did Mendoza fuck that out of your head too?"

He's gone before I can respond. Not that I would.

I sit back on my heels, water pooling around my knees, and stare at the mess. My reflection wavers in the surface—distorted, barely recognizable. I start again.

---

The bell rings at 8 AM.

I know what it means. Holly installed it last week, a small silver thing mounted outside the master bedroom. "So much more civilized than shouting," she'd said, smiling that smile that never reaches her eyes.

I climb the stairs with the breakfast tray. Poached eggs, avocado toast, fresh-pressed orange juice, strawberries arranged just so. My hands don't shake anymore when I carry things. I've learned to lock my joints, turn my body into a machine.

The bedroom door is ajar.

I knock twice with my elbow. "Breakfast."

"Come in, Bella." Holly's voice is honey over razors.

They're in bed. Of course they are. Christopher's bare chest is visible above the silk sheets, his arm draped possessively over Holly's waist. She's wearing one of my old negligees—the ivory one with French lace I bought for an anniversary that never happened.

I set the tray on the side table. Keep my eyes on the wood grain.

"On the bed, silly." Holly sits up, letting the sheet fall strategically. "We're not getting up yet."

I lift the tray, lean over them to place it across Holly's lap. This close, I can smell Christopher's cologne on her skin, see the marks on her neck that he put there. My stomach turns, but my face stays blank.

Holly plucks a strawberry from the bowl, brings it to Christopher's mouth. He bites, eyes on his phone, barely acknowledging either of us. Juice runs down Holly's finger. She licks it slowly, her gaze locked on mine.

"Isn't she so helpful, Chris?" Holly's hand trails across his chest. "Like having a ghost who does chores."

I find a spot on the wall behind them. A small crack in the plaster, barely visible. I count the millimeters it spans.

"Arabella." Christopher's voice cuts through my dissociation. "I'm talking to you."

I blink, refocus. He's sitting up now, irritation carved into every line of his face.

"Yes, sir?"

"Don't 'yes sir' me like some martyr." He throws the covers back, stands. "You think playing broken makes you sympathetic? You're still the same gold-digging bitch who—"

"Christopher." Holly's hand on his arm, gentle. Pacifying. "Let her go. She's not worth your energy this early."

He stares at me for three more seconds. I count them. Then he waves his hand in dismissal.

I leave the room, close the door, hear Holly's laughter through the wood.

---

By noon, I'm light-headed. The morning's work—floors, bathrooms, Christopher's study—has depleted what little reserves I have. My uniform is still damp from the bucket incident, clinging to my skin.

I'm in the laundry room, folding Holly's cashmere, when she appears in the doorway.

"You must be starving." She holds a covered plate. "I saved you some lunch. The salmon from last night? It's delicious."

I look at the plate, then at her. Her smile is wide, genuine to anyone who doesn't know her.

"Thank you."

"Of course. We're still friends, aren't we? Despite everything." She sets it on the dryer, pats my shoulder. Her touch burns. "Eat up. You need your strength."

She leaves, humming something light and airy.

I stare at the plate. My stomach cramps with hunger. I haven't eaten since yesterday's dinner—half a roll I found in the bread box. The salmon looks perfect, pink and flaky, with roasted vegetables and couscous.

I eat standing up, too tired to walk back to my room. It tastes fine. Normal. Maybe a little bitter, but everything tastes wrong these days.

An hour later, I'm on my knees in the guest bathroom, retching into the toilet. My body convulses, trying to expel poison it can't identify. Sweat pours down my face. The tiles are cool against my forehead when I finally collapse against them.

Footsteps outside the door. Light. Feminine.

"Oh, Bella." Holly's voice filters through, soft with mock concern. "Day drinking already? How disappointing."

I hear the camera click. Once, twice. Then the sound of her heels retreating, and the chime of a text being sent.

I close my eyes, tasting bile and blood, and wait for my body to stop betraying me.