My Husband Kissed Another Girl in the Crowd

The phone only rang once before a voice poured through the speaker—silky, dangerous, unmistakable.

“Well, look who decided to resurrect herself,” he drawled. “Tell me, bella, what made you dial my number again?”

My throat burned, but my voice came out steady. “I’ll marry you,” I said, tasting the last of my dignity crumble, “but only if you help me bury Griffin Mercer and everything he’s ever built.”

Silence.

Then a low, amused hum.

“A proposal and a vendetta in the same breath,” he purred. “You never disappoint. When do you want me there?”

“Six days,” I answered. “I have a few ghosts to put to rest first.”

I ended the call, let the burner phone fall onto the mattress, and stared at my reflection. The woman in the mirror wasn’t fragile anymore. She wasn’t broken. She looked like someone who had finally woken up.

And Griffin?

He had no idea he’d just trained me to become the very weapon that would ruin him.

---

Griffin didn’t come home that night.

Not that I could’ve slept anyway.

The pain radiating from the surgical wound pulsed like a sick heartbeat. The emptiness in my abdomen felt like a cavern carved open by cruelty. My baby was gone. My body was butchered. I cried until my throat went raw and my lungs felt bruised.

But by the time the sky lightened, something inside me had calcified.

No tears.

No begging.

Just a hollow, ruthless clarity.

The doctor walked in like it was any ordinary morning, chart in hand, pretending he wasn’t part of the nightmare.

“How are you feeling today, Mrs. Mercer?”

I didn’t look at him. “When can I leave?”

He blinked, startled. “I—I’ll get your discharge paperwork started.”

I didn’t need recovery. I needed revenge.

The moment he stepped out, I grabbed another burner phone and dialed a lawyer whose number I’d memorized for emergencies.

“I want to file for divorce,” I said flatly.

“Understood,” came the crisp reply. “E-documents are on the way. You should have the official papers within seventy-two hours.”

I hung up without a thank you.

A few minutes later, the doctor returned—this time with Griffin’s driver lingering awkwardly beside him.

“Ma’am,” the driver said softly, “Mr. Mercer sent me to bring you home. He’s… uh… cooking dinner for you.”

I almost laughed. Griffin didn’t know the first thing about what I liked. Five years married, and he still thought my favorite food was something I wouldn’t survive eating.

I forced a nod. “Fine. Take me.”

---

The mansion looked exactly as it always had—cold, pristine, staged like a show home. Not an inch out of place. Not a whisper of warmth. But the scene in the living room made my stomach twist.

Celeste.

Lounging on my couch like royalty, draped in a crimson dress hugging her pregnant belly. One manicured hand holding a wine glass she didn’t even pretend to hide. Her posture said everything: she thought she belonged here.

Hovering beside her like some proud mother hen was Griffin’s mother—the same woman who once hissed that her son “made a charitable decision” by marrying a girl with no pedigree.

My chest tightened. My muscles locked.

Celeste glanced up, lips curving into a syrupy smile.

“Oh. You finally made it back, Abigail.”

Before I could respond, my mother-in-law snapped, voice sharp as glass, “Why is she even here? She was never fit to stand beside my son. I don’t know why he didn’t toss her ungrateful, barren behind out years ago.”

My nails dug into my palms. I tasted blood. I said nothing. I had heard worse from the world.

I turned toward the staircase.

I barely took three steps before fingers tangled in my hair and yanked—hard.

“AH—!”

My head jerked back. My balance faltered. The slap that followed came fast and vicious, her heavy ring slicing my cheek open.

“You disrespectful whore,” she snarled. “You can’t even greet your elders? Did you forget manners while you were killing your bastard child?”

My sight blurred—not from pain.

From fury so sharp it tasted metallic.

Slowly, I straightened, turned, and met her gaze head-on.

“Why don’t you ask your precious son,” I rasped, “why my daughter died?”

Everything fell silent.

Celeste froze.

Griffin’s mother stiffened, her certainty wavering.

“Ask him,” I repeated, louder, “where he was while I was strapped to a filthy bed begging for my baby. Ask him why he took his mistress to a concert while he paid men to slaughter my little girl—for her.”

Celeste’s face drained of color. My mother-in-law stared, stunned.

Then—another slap. Hard enough to make my ears ring.

“Stop blaming my son for your failures,” she spat. “You couldn’t even defend your own womb. You were never meant to be a mother.”

I stumbled back.

And then—

“That’s enough, Ma.”

Griffin’s voice cut clean through the room.

He walked in wearing an apron, wiping his hands on a towel like some doting husband preparing a home-cooked meal. A wooden spoon dangled from his fingers.

“Don’t talk to her like that,” he said mildly.

Then he turned to me, reached for my face like nothing was wrong, like I didn’t know the truth.

“How are you holding up, sweetheart?”

I flinched away, revulsion twisting through me.

His expression tightened. “Abigail. Apologize. To my mother. And to Celeste. That behavior isn’t acceptable.”

A laugh scraped out of me—dry, hollow, poisonous.

“What are they doing in my house?”

“She always speaks to you like this?” his mother cut in.

Celeste sighed, dramatic and fragile. “Maybe I should give you two some space. I don’t want to be the reason for more stress.”

And then—

A small voice.

“Daddy? Why is that lady yelling?”

I turned slowly.

A little girl stood in the hallway. Four, maybe five. Dark curls. Big hazel eyes. Griffin’s dimples.

My heart stopped.

“Who is that?” I whispered.

Griffin didn’t hesitate.

“Oh, Celeste’s daughter from her late husband. She’s a widow now. And since she’s pregnant and the house is too large, they’ll be living with us for a while.”

My jaw trembled. “And she calls you Daddy?”

He shrugged. “Kids get attached. I don’t want to upset her.”

My laugh broke out—low, heartless.

So that was it.

She was his child.

Their child.

He murdered mine because she was a girl, but kept this one because she fit his perfect little narrative.

He walked toward the dining table, proudly unveiling a steaming dish.

“I made your favorite.”

The smell hit me—briny, sharp.

Shellfish.

I was allergic.

Extremely.

Five years together, and he didn’t remember.

Or maybe he did.

My stomach twisted violently. I bent over and threw up onto the marble floor.

Celeste leapt backward with a shriek.

“Oh my God, Abigail! Really? You couldn’t just ask me to leave? Did you have to puke on me and my daughter?”