My Husband Drugged Me for His Mistress

I left the penthouse at seven in the morning, dressed like I was going for coffee. Jaxson was still asleep. I took the subway instead of calling a car. No driver meant no record of where I'd been.

The drugstore on 5th Avenue smelled like antiseptic and old carpet. I paid cash for the burner phone. The clerk didn't look at my face. I activated it two blocks away, standing in front of a Starbucks I didn't go into.

Vivienne Cho's office wasn't the kind of place you'd expect Manhattan's most feared divorce attorney to work. No marble lobby. No brass nameplate. Just a plain door on the third floor of a building between a dry cleaner and a tax accountant. I liked that. It meant she didn't need to advertise.

She answered the door herself. Mid-fifties, gray suit, eyes that took in everything and gave nothing back.

"Ms. Wells." She stepped aside. "Come in."

The office was small. One desk, two chairs, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. A window overlooking an airshaft. She gestured to the chair across from her desk and sat down.

"Tell me what happened," she said.

I told her. The party. Waking up to the sculpture. The phone call I'd overheard. Hayden's voice on speaker saying *she looked so peaceful lying there*. Jaxson laughing.

Vivienne didn't interrupt. She took notes in a leather-bound notebook, her handwriting small and precise.

When I finished, she set down her pen.

"Emotional testimony won't survive his legal team," she said. "Griffin has the resources to bury this in motions and depositions for years. What we need is documentation. Proof of the affair. Proof of conspiracy. Ideally, a witnessed incident of misconduct that we can corroborate with physical evidence."

"I can get that," I said.

She studied me. "This isn't a sprint, Ms. Wells. If you move too fast, if he suspects you're building a case, he'll lock down every asset and every witness before we can file. You'll need to appear compliant. Devastated, even. Can you do that?"

I thought of Jaxson's hand on my shoulder. His voice saying *let me take care of you*. The way he'd smiled when I said I was tired.

"Yes," I said.

Vivienne nodded. "Then we start now. Document everything. Dates, times, exact words. If he gives you access to his phone or computer, photograph it. If Hayden contacts you, save it. We're going to build a case so airtight that when we file, there won't be anywhere for either of them to run."

She slid a business card across the desk. It had a single phone number, no name.

"Burner line," she said. "Use it if you need me. Don't call from your personal phone. Don't email. And Ms. Wells—" She waited until I met her eyes. "Once we start this, there's no halfway. You need to be certain."

I picked up the card. "I'm certain."

I got home before Jaxson woke up. I made coffee. I sat at the kitchen island scrolling through my phone like the world hadn't just shifted on its axis.

He came out of the bedroom at nine, hair damp from the shower, smelling like expensive soap. He kissed the top of my head.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

I looked up at him. His face was arranged into perfect concern. The same expression he'd worn yesterday. The same one he'd probably wear tomorrow.

"I've been thinking," I said. I let my voice sound small. Uncertain. "Maybe you're right. About taking a break."

Something flickered in his eyes. Relief. Satisfaction. He hid it quickly, but I saw it.

"Yeah?" He sat down beside me, his hand covering mine. "I think that's really smart, Ky. You've been pushing yourself so hard. You deserve rest."

"I just need some time," I said. "To figure out what I want."

He squeezed my hand. "Take all the time you need. I'm here."

I smiled at him. It felt like moving a muscle I'd forgotten I had.

That night, I told him I needed space. That sleeping in the same bed felt too hard right now. That the sculpture had made me feel exposed in a way I couldn't explain.

He nodded. He looked almost pleased.

"Of course," he said. "Whatever you need. The guest room's all yours."

I moved my things that evening. Not much. Some clothes. My laptop. The photograph of my grandmother I kept in my coat pocket.

I set up the digital recorder in the bedside drawer, hidden under a stack of magazines. I locked my evidence journal in a safety deposit box at the Chase branch three blocks from my agency. I wrote down everything Jaxson had said today. The time. His exact words. The way his face had changed when I said I'd take a break.

I lay in the guest room bed and stared at the ceiling. The apartment was quiet. Jaxson was in our bedroom—his bedroom now—probably asleep, probably dreaming of a future where I stayed home and smiled and stopped being inconvenient.

I ran my thumb across my collarbone. The place where my grandmother's necklace used to rest.

I wondered where it was now. If Jaxson had sold it. If he'd given it away.

I closed my eyes.

I'd find out soon enough.