My Husband Let His Mistress Ruin My Career

Beckett came home at eleven.

I heard his key in the lock. Heard him drop his briefcase by the door. Heard his footsteps cross the living room.

I was sitting in the dark. Hadn't turned on any lights. I'd been there for an hour, just sitting, watching the city lights through the windows.

"Nala?"

I didn't answer.

He found me anyway. Turned on the lamp. The light made me blink.

"We need to talk," he said.

I looked at him. He was still wearing his suit from work. Tom Ford. Navy. The one I'd picked out for his birthday last year.

"My assistant heard something today," he said. "About a legal filing. My name attached to it."

I waited.

"Is there something you want to tell me?"

I pressed my thumb against the inside of my left wrist. Counted my pulse. Seventy-two beats per minute.

"No," I said.

He exhaled. Ran his hand through his hair. "You're making a scene out of nothing. Whatever you think you know—"

"I know exactly what I'm talking about."

The words came out quiet. Flat. I stood up.

Beckett stepped into my path. "Nala. Listen to me. You have no idea—"

I walked past him. Didn't touch him. Didn't look back.

The guest bedroom was at the end of the hall. I opened the door. Closed it behind me. Turned the lock.

I could hear him standing outside. Waiting. Then his footsteps retreated.

I sat on the edge of the bed and looked at my hands in the dim light from the window.

Still steady.

The Walker Foundation Gala was four days later.

I'd been on the planning committee for two years. Helped choose the venue. Approved the menu. Written the speech Eleanor would give about cardiac research funding.

I wore black. Simple. A dress I'd owned for three years. No jewelry except my wedding ring.

I arrived alone.

The Met was already full. Four hundred people in evening wear. Champagne on trays. String quartet in the corner. Marble floors polished to a mirror shine.

I saw Eleanor first. She was holding court near the main staircase. Recovered from surgery. Strong. She saw me and smiled thinly.

I didn't go over.

I took a glass of champagne from a passing tray. Didn't drink it. Just held it.

Then I saw Beckett.

He was standing near the bar with a group of Walker Enterprises board members. Laughing at something James Whitfield said. He looked relaxed. Happy.

Charleigh Rose was beside him.

She wore white. A dress that probably cost more than my car. Her hair was swept up. Her makeup was perfect.

And around her neck was the Harry Winston necklace.

I recognized it immediately. The platinum setting. The diamonds catching the light. $280,000 hanging against her collarbone in front of four hundred witnesses.

She was showing it off. Touching it with her fingertips. Tilting her head so it caught the light.

I watched her for thirty seconds. Noted the way she leaned into Beckett. The way he put his hand on her lower back.

Then I walked across the floor.

My heels clicked on the marble. The sound carried. People turned to look.

I stopped in front of Charleigh.

She looked up at me. Her eyes went wide. Startled. She touched the necklace instinctively.

"Nala," Beckett said. His voice had a warning in it.

I didn't look at him.

I looked at Charleigh. At the necklace. At the hand touching it like she was protecting something precious.

Then I lifted my champagne glass and poured it.

The Dom Pérignon hit the diamonds first. Ran down the platinum chain. Soaked into the white dress. Dripped onto the marble floor.

Charleigh gasped. Stepped back. Her hands flew up.

The room went completely silent.

I set the empty glass on a nearby table. Looked at Charleigh. My voice came out low and clear.

"Diamonds suit women who earn them," I said. "Not ones who steal them."

Charleigh's mouth opened. No sound came out.

I turned to walk away.

Beckett grabbed my arm. Hard. His fingers dug into my wrist.

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

I looked down at his hand. Then up at his face.

"Let go," I said.

"You're embarrassing yourself—"

"Let. Go."

He didn't.

Charleigh made a small sound behind him. A whimper. I saw her sway. Saw her hand go to her forehead.

"Beckett," she whispered. "I don't feel—"

She collapsed.

Beckett released my arm instantly. Lunged forward. Caught her before she hit the floor.

"Charleigh!" His voice cracked. "Someone call an ambulance!"

I stood there. Watched him kneel on the marble. Watched him cradle her head. Watched her eyelids flutter.

She wasn't unconscious. I could see her breathing. See the tension in her neck.

Performance.

Beckett looked up at me. His face was white. Furious.

"Are you happy now?" he said. "Look what you did."

I looked at Charleigh in his arms. At the champagne-soaked necklace. At the four hundred people watching.

Then I looked at Beckett.

"Yes," I said.

I walked out.

Behind me, I heard Eleanor's voice. Sharp. Commanding. "Someone help her up. And someone find Dr. Montgomery—"

I kept walking.

My hands were steady.

They were always steady.