My Husband Left Me Bleeding For His Mistress

I changed into my gown in dressing room two.

The silk felt cool and heavy against my skin. It fit my body perfectly because I had measured every single inch myself. When I zipped it up, I looked in the tall mirror. I didn't look like a nervous bride. I looked like an illustration brought to life.

I picked up the bouquet of white roses and walked out to the stage.

Collin stood near the backdrop. When he saw me, his eyes widened. For half a second, his litigator mask cracked. He looked stunned. Then he glanced toward the corner where Anastasia was touching up her lip gloss in her stolen version of my dress, and his face closed up again.

"You look nice," Collin said stiffly.

"Let's just get the shots," I replied.

We stepped under the hot studio lights. Collin put his arm around my waist. His hand felt heavy and wooden, like a stranger's.

"Smile, Paige," he muttered through his teeth. "You look like you're going to a funeral."

"Maybe I am," I said quietly.

The photographer fired off a few test frames. The flashes popped bright and white against the gray rain outside.

Anastasia didn't stay in the corner. She drifted onto the edge of the set, smoothing her sheer skirt. She lingered near our light stands, pretending to check her reflection in a dark screen.

"Collin," she chimed in, her voice sweet and high. "Should I stand on this side for the dual portraits, or should I wait?"

"Wait by the monitor, Stas," Collin called back softly. "We'll be done in a minute."

We shifted positions toward the center mark. A thick, coiled power cable ran across the concrete floor between the lights.

Anastasia took two quick steps forward. Then her heel caught the rubber.

She let out a sharp, theatrical shriek.

Her body twisted in mid-air. She crashed down onto the hard floor, knocking into a lightweight reflector. The metal stand clattered loudly against the concrete.

Anastasia curled onto her side. She cradled her right arm against her ribs, whimpering softly. It was the arm with the faint, faded scar from high school. A tiny red scrape, barely the size of a dime, showed on her elbow.

"Oh God," she gasped, tears flooding her eyes instantly. "Collin... it hurts."

Collin let go of me so fast I almost lost my balance.

He dropped to his knees on the concrete, sliding right next to her. "Stas! Don't move. Let me see."

Anastasia buried her face against Collin’s shoulder. She trembled violently.

"I'm sorry," she sobbed, her voice muffled against his lapel. "I was just trying to get out of the way. But she... she shoved past me so hard. Paige, why did you push me?"

Every sound in the studio died.

The photographer stopped with her finger on the shutter. Two lighting assistants froze near the sandbags, their eyes wide.

I stood two feet away, holding my bouquet. My bandaged hand gripped the stems until the thorns pressed into the white tape. I hadn't touched her. I hadn't even been close enough to brush her sleeve.

Collin snapped his head up.

His face was flushed a dark, ugly red. The veins in his neck stood out against his crisp white collar. He looked at me with pure venom.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" he barked.

His voice bounced off the high loft ceiling.

"Collin," I said, keeping my voice dead level. "I didn't touch her."

"She has a scrape on the exact same arm, Paige!" he yelled, lifting Anastasia gently by the waist. "Are you that sick? Are you that bitter over a dinner that you'd hurt her?"

I didn't blink. I didn't defend myself. I just looked at him.

Collin took off his black tuxedo jacket and draped it over Anastasia's bare shoulders. He gathered her into his side, holding her close as she wept into his chest.

"We're going to urgent care," he announced to the room.

He didn't look at me again. He didn't ask if I needed a ride back to the hotel. He just turned his back, guided Anastasia toward the heavy exit door, and pushed it open.

The door shut with a dull, heavy thud.

The silence that followed lasted exactly four seconds.

The studio crew stood motionless. The air felt thick, embarrassing, and cold.

The photographer lowered her camera. She looked at me with deep pity in her eyes. "Paige... do you want to pack up? We can stop."

I looked down at the white roses in my hands.

I tossed the bouquet onto the concrete floor. The petals scattered.

Then I looked up, straight into the main camera lens.

"No," I said. My voice was calm, clear, and steady. "Keep shooting."

The photographer blinked. "Alone?"

"Alone."

I took two steps forward and hit the center mark.

I didn't smile. I didn't pose like a shy, blushing bride waiting for her groom. I lifted my chin. I rested my bare left hand on my hip, showing the pale skin where my wedding ring used to be. My other hand, wrapped in clean white medical gauze, rested at my side like a clenched fist.

The photographer raised her lens. *Click.*

The flash burst like white lightning.

"Yes," the photographer whispered under her breath. "Just like that. Turn your shoulder slightly."

*Click. Flash.*

I turned. I gave the lens the raw, unblinking truth. Five years of waiting, five years of making excuses, five years of feeling second-best—it was all gone. My heart had finished grieving. There was nothing left inside but cold, clean steel.

The shutter kept firing, fast and rhythmic.

Rain lashed against the tall glass behind me.

*Click. Flash.*

The photographer stared down at her digital preview screen. Her hands hovered over the buttons. She let out a slow, stunned breath and looked up at me.

"Paige," she said softly. "In ten years in New York... this is the best work of my career."

I looked at my reflection in the dark studio window.

"Send me the raw files," I said. "I have a livestream tonight."