My Husband Kissed Another Girl in the Crowd

I should’ve fallen apart right then—sobbed, screamed, begged for something, anything—but instead, a strange relief washed over me.

Because if he was yelling at me, it meant he hadn’t found the envelope tucked deep inside my coat: the divorce petition and my resignation letter, each one already notarized, my final goodbye to this ruin of a life.

I stepped into the black dress he’d once insisted I wear for him—sleek, sharp, the neckline a deliberate dare. It slid over my battered ribs and fading bruises like silk pretending to be armor. By the time I caught my reflection, I didn’t even recognize the woman staring back. She looked polished. Controlled. Not like someone who’d spent the night making escape plans.

When I reached the foyer, I felt his eyes sweep over me. A flicker of something—surprise, possession, irritation—crossed his face. But the moment Celeste strutted in on stiletto heels, reeking of expensive perfume and self-satisfaction, I vanished from his attention as easily as a shadow at noon.

On the way to the soirée, I settled in the back seat of his black SUV. I didn’t say a word. Just watched the lights of the city ripple past my window—the same city I was hours away from abandoning for good.

Up front, Celeste behaved exactly how she always did when she wanted his eyes on her: loud, touchy, sugary-sweet in a way that made my skin crawl. She curled an arm through Griffin’s, leaning her head onto his shoulder like she owned him.

“This car,” she cooed, dragging her manicured fingers over his sleeve, “was where we had our very first kiss. God, do you remember how wild we were?”

Griffin stiffened, but only slightly. “Yeah, babe,” he answered under his breath. Then he glanced at me in the mirror—like he needed to gauge whether I’d heard.

I didn’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. I was busy confirming my flight for tomorrow night. One-way. New name. New country. No more Mafia politics. No more betrayals. No more Griffin Mercer and his monstrous family.

As I leaned back, something crackled under me. I shifted—and froze.

A damp, lacy thong lay crumpled beside me on the leather seat.

My chest clenched violently.

Before I could even form words, Celeste twisted around, eyes sparkling like this was the best entertainment she’d had all week. “Oh nooo,” she gasped theatrically. “Oops. That’s mine! Griffin, babe, didn’t I tell you to keep that hidden?”

She laughed, a high, tinkling sound made of pure venom.

“I swear I told you to put my underwear away after last night.”

Griffin didn’t blush. Didn’t apologize. Didn’t even pretend to be ashamed.

He simply reached back, plucked the still-warm scrap of fabric from the seat, lifted it to his face—

And smelled it.

“Hm,” he murmured smugly. “Peaches.”

Then he tucked it into his pocket like a prize.

My stomach lurched. Not from disgust—though there was plenty of that—but from the realization of how small he truly was. How small I had made myself to love him. They giggled together like hormone-drunk teenagers while I sat behind them, suffocating in their rot.

And yet, I smiled. Soft. Almost serene.

Because by tomorrow, they’d wake up without me—and without the silence I’d gifted them for far too long. And that silence? It was the last mercy they would ever receive.

---

When we finally arrived at the venue, Celeste latched onto Griffin’s arm as if she were welded there, while I trailed behind them like some underpaid assistant. Every time a guest mistakenly greeted her as “Mrs. Mercer,” Griffin’s lips twitched—but he never corrected them. Not even once.

I was counting down the minutes until I could sneak out and disappear when it happened.

Rapid pops. Screams. The sharp, metallic crack of gunfire.

People dove to the ground. Chairs toppled. The air filled with chaos.

And Griffin’s immediate instinct?

He threw himself over Celeste, shielding her with his entire body, as if she were a priceless artifact instead of the woman ruining our marriage.

I stood in shock for a single heartbeat—and then pain tore through my left side. White-hot, unforgiving. I hit the floor, breath ripped from my lungs.

“C-Griffin…” I choked, reaching toward him, blood quickly soaking through the black silk. “Please…help…”

He looked back. For an instant, something warm flickered across his expression—panic, disbelief, maybe even regret.

He rushed toward me, pressing his palm to the wound. “Stay with me, Abigail. Fuck, just—just stay awake.”

But then—

“Griffin!” Celeste shrieked. “The baby! I can’t move!”

And just like that, he chose.

He dropped me. Literally let me hit the ground.

Didn’t look twice.

He scooped Celeste into his arms like some tragic hero in a melodrama.

“You’re tough,” he shouted to me over his shoulder. “You’ll survive this. She won’t.”

Then they were gone. Gone, while I lay there bleeding out on a marble floor.

Alone. Again.

Celeste cast a triumphant little smirk back at me as Griffin carried her out. A reminder that she’d taken everything—and he’d let her.

Gunfire echoed somewhere beyond the walls, but no one came for me. Not Griffin. Not even his guards.

By the time I staggered outside, half-conscious and leaving a trail of blood behind me, the entire operation had cleared out—left me like abandoned cargo.

The hospital stitched me up yet again. The nurse didn’t even blink. She’d seen me too many times.

When I finally returned to the estate, I thought—stupidly—that there might be concern. Panic. Maybe a single phone call asking where the hell I’d gone.

Instead, I walked into the dining hall to find them all at the long table. Griffin. Celeste. Sienna. His mother. Damian. Laughing. Drinking. Cutting into thick slabs of steak.

As if I hadn’t bled for them hours earlier.

Griffin’s face stilled when he noticed me. Guilt flashed, but it disappeared as quickly as it came. He approached.

“She was in bad shape,” he said lowly. “I had to rush Celeste to the ER. It was critical.”

“Really?” I replied, voice like ice. “Guess my blood didn’t count.”

I didn’t wait for his excuses. I turned and climbed the stairs to what used to be our shared bedroom—that cage he called a home. I pulled out the small wooden box hidden beneath the bed: our wedding ring, faded notes, cheap photographs, vows scribbled on napkins from that ridiculous Vegas chapel.

I carried it all out to the steel burning barrel in the backyard.

Struck a match.

Dropped it in.

I watched the flames devour the pieces of my past: the sweet parts, the bitter ones, the delusions disguised as love.

Griffin burst outside when he smelled the smoke. “Have you completely lost it?!” he shouted.

He grabbed the extinguisher, but the fire had already reduced nearly everything to ash. All he managed to save was a half-charred wedding photo—his arm around my waist, me smiling like I hadn’t yet learned what monsters could hide behind tailored suits.

“You’re out of your damn mind,” he snapped. “Do you hear yourself?”

I met his fury with absolute calm.

“I’m done, Griffin,” I said. “I want a divorce.”