My Husband Left Me to Die for His Mistress

The doctor was young. Too young, I thought, for what he was about to tell me. He had the kind of face that probably smiled easily under other circumstances. He wasn't smiling now.

"The infection has reached the bone," he said. He was looking at my chart, not at me. "We need to operate immediately. There's no time for a hospital transfer."

I stared at the fluorescent light above his head. It had a crack running through the plastic cover.

"Okay," I said.

"Mrs. Grant." He finally looked at me. "We don't have general anesthesia here. I can give you a local block and something for the pain, but you'll be conscious for the procedure."

The room was very quiet. Somewhere down the hall, a phone was ringing. No one answered it.

"How long will it take?" I asked.

"Forty minutes. Maybe less."

I nodded. My hands were folded in my lap. They looked like someone else's hands.

"Okay," I said again.

He brought me a leather belt. Told me to bite down on it when I needed to. A nurse with gray hair and steady hands helped me onto the table. The local injection burned going in. I counted the ceiling tiles while we waited for it to take effect.

Twelve tiles. Three were stained.

The doctor's voice was calm. Clinical. He told me what he was doing as he did it. I bit down on the belt and tasted copper and salt. The sound of the saw was worse than the pain. High and mechanical and wrong.

I screamed into the leather. The nurse held my hand. Her palm was dry and warm.

When it was over, I lay on the table shaking so hard my teeth rattled. The nurse covered me with a heated blanket. It didn't help.

They moved me to a recovery room. Four walls. One window. A chair no one sat in.

The doctor came back an hour later. He pulled the chair close to the bed and sat down heavily, like a man who'd been on his feet too long.

"You're going to be okay," he said. "The infection is out. You'll need IV antibiotics for a week, but you'll heal."

I nodded. I was so tired I could barely keep my eyes open.

"There's something else." He paused. Looked down at his hands. "When we ran your bloodwork, we found elevated hCG levels. You're pregnant. About eight weeks."

I stopped breathing.

The room tilted sideways. I gripped the bed rail.

"Are you sure?" My voice didn't sound like mine.

"Yes."

I turned my head toward the window. It was dark outside. Snow falling in the cone of light from the parking lot lamp.

"Does my husband know?" I asked.

"No. We haven't been able to reach him."

I closed my eyes.

"Don't tell him," I said. "Not yet."

The doctor was quiet for a moment. Then he stood up.

"Okay," he said softly. "Get some rest."

He left. The door clicked shut.

I lay there in the dark and put my hand on my stomach. Flat. Empty. Except it wasn't.

This was mine. The last thing I had that Cassius hadn't touched. Hadn't ruined.

I would say nothing. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

I fell asleep with my hand pressed against the secret I was keeping, and dreamed of my father.

---

Cassius didn't come back that night. Or the next morning. The clinic called him six times. The calls went to voicemail.

I told the nurse I didn't want to try anymore.

On the third day, he walked in with flowers. Lilies. My least favorite. He set them on the table beside the bed and sat down in the chair.

"Jesus, Elise." His voice was rough. "I'm so sorry. Avianna was in bad shape. I couldn't leave her."

I looked at him. Really looked at him. The expensive coat. The perfect hair. The face I'd once loved more than my own life.

"She wasn't in an accident, was she," I said.

He blinked. "What?"

"There was no accident."

He straightened his cufflinks. "You're not thinking clearly. You've been through a trauma."

I turned my head toward the window.

"My father's memorial is in four days," I said. "I need to be there."

"Of course. I'll arrange everything."

He reached for my hand. I pulled it away.

He stood up. Smoothed his coat.

"I'll be back tomorrow," he said.

He left the lilies.

I threw them in the trash after he was gone.

---

The chapel was full. Broadway people. Neighbors from Queens. Students my father had mentored over the years. They filled the pews in dark suits and dresses, their faces soft with grief.

I sat in the front row in a wheelchair. My body wasn't strong enough yet for the prosthetic. The new amputation was bandaged beneath a long black dress. I kept my hands folded in my lap and stared at the closed casket.

Cassius stood beside me. One hand on my shoulder. He greeted people as they approached. Shook hands. Accepted condolences with a somber nod.

He was very good at this.

I sat very still and felt the secret growing inside me. Eight weeks. Nine now. A small flutter of cells that didn't know yet what kind of world it was coming into.

The service started. A colleague from the Shubert spoke about my father's dedication. His kindness. The way he remembered everyone's name.

I didn't cry. I'd run out of tears somewhere on that frozen Vermont road.

Halfway through, the chapel doors opened.

A woman walked in.

She was wearing white.

I heard the whispers ripple through the pews. Heads turning. Someone gasped.

Avianna James walked down the center aisle in a white dress that clung to every curve, her heels clicking on the marble floor. She didn't look at anyone. She walked straight to the front and stopped.

She looked at me.

She smiled.

"I'm so sorry for your loss, Elise," she said. Her voice carried in the silence. "Your father was a good man. He didn't deserve what happened to him."

Cassius's hand tightened on my shoulder.

"Avianna," he said quietly. "Not now."

She turned to him. Her smile widened.

"Not now?" She laughed. Soft. Musical. "When, then? When is the right time to tell her the truth?"

The chapel was absolutely silent.

She turned back to me.

"That car accident," she said. "The one that took your leg. It wasn't an accident, Elise. Cassius was on the phone with me. I'd sent him pictures. Intimate ones. I told him I'd leak them if he didn't leave you. He panicked. He wasn't watching the road."

She tilted her head.

"He was thinking about me," she said softly, "when he ruined you."

The room spun.

I tried to stand. The wheelchair rolled backward. Cassius grabbed for me.

Something inside me tore.

I felt it. Warm and wet. Spreading.

I looked down.

Blood. Soaking through the black dress.

"Elise—" Cassius's voice was far away.

I collapsed forward. The floor came up fast.

The last thing I heard was someone screaming.

I think it was me.