My Husband Let Them Burn Me for His Mistress

Arlet moved through the house like she owned it. Maybe she did. I wasn't sure anymore.

She appeared in doorways without warning. Her footsteps were soft on the hardwood, but I always heard them. Always felt her before I saw her.

The first time it happened, I was in the kitchen making coffee. I turned around and she was there, leaning against the counter with her arms crossed over her stomach.

"Good morning," she said. Her voice was warm. Friendly. The kind of voice you use with guests.

I didn't answer. I poured my coffee and walked past her.

"Wren's still asleep," she called after me. "He was up late last night. We were talking about the nursery."

I kept walking.

That afternoon, I found her in the living room, flipping through a photo album. She looked up when I came in and smiled.

"Come look at these," she said. She patted the cushion next to her. "Santorini was beautiful. We went snorkeling. Wren got sunburned on the first day and I had to rub aloe on his back every night."

She turned a page. "And this was Paris. We stayed in a little hotel near the Seine. He proposed on a bridge at sunset. It was so romantic."

She looked at me. Her eyes were bright. Expectant.

I turned and left the room.

She found me again in the hallway that evening. This time, no one else was around. The warmth was gone from her voice.

"You can't ignore me forever," she said.

I stopped walking. I didn't turn around.

"He chose me," she said quietly. "Not you. Me. He's been choosing me for three years. Every morning when he wakes up next to me. Every night when he comes home to me."

I heard her move closer.

"And now I'm carrying his child. The child the Stewarts actually want. Not some accident he felt obligated to keep."

I turned around then. She stood three feet away, one hand resting on the curve of her belly. Her lips curved into a small, satisfied smile.

"You should leave," she said. "Before you embarrass yourself further."

I walked past her without saying a word.

That night, I told Wren.

We were in his study. He was sitting at his desk, going through papers. I stood in the doorway until he looked up.

"Arlet said something to me today," I said.

He set down his pen. "What did she say?"

I told him. All of it. The photos. The stories. The venom in the hallway.

He rubbed his face with both hands. "Emerald—"

"I want her out of this house."

"I can't do that."

"Why not?"

"Because she's carrying my child." His voice was tired. Strained. Like I was the one making everything difficult. "You need to understand the position I'm in."

"The position you're in," I repeated.

He stood up. "She's emotional right now. Hormones. She doesn't mean half of what she says."

"She meant it."

"Then ignore her. Be the bigger person. This isn't forever."

I stared at him. At this man I used to know. This stranger wearing his face.

"How long is it?" I asked.

He didn't answer.

I left the study and went to the spare room at the end of the hall. It was small. Empty except for a desk and a chair. The window overlooked the back garden.

I brought in my easel the next morning. My paints. My brushes. I set everything up in the corner by the window where the light was best.

I started painting that afternoon.

I didn't plan what to paint. I just put the brush on the canvas and let it move. Dark colors. Reds and blacks and deep purples. Shapes that didn't have names. Lines that bled into each other.

It hurt to hold the brush. My hands cramped after twenty minutes. But I kept going.

I painted every day. Sometimes for hours. Sometimes just for a few minutes before the pain got too bad.

I didn't show anyone. I turned the canvases to face the wall when I left the room. They were mine. The only thing in this house that was still mine.

At night, I lay in bed and thought about leaving. I pictured myself packing a bag. Walking out the front door. Getting in a car and driving until I couldn't remember the way back.

But every time I tried to make the picture real, it fell apart.

I had no money. Wren controlled everything. The accounts were in his name. The credit cards. Everything.

I had nowhere to go. My mother was dead. I had no other family except Arlet, and that was worse than being alone.

I had no plan.

But I started thinking about one.

Three days later, I tried.

I waited until Wren left for a meeting. I packed a small bag. Just clothes and my wallet. I walked down the stairs and through the foyer to the front door.

Wren was standing outside.

He must have turned around. Must have come back. I don't know.

He looked at the bag in my hand.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

I didn't answer.

He stepped closer. His eyes were red. Like he'd been crying. "Please don't leave."

"Move."

"I love you." His voice cracked. He reached for my hands. Held them tight. "You're the only woman I've ever truly loved. You have to believe that."

I pulled my hands away.

"If you leave," he said quietly, "everyone will know. About us. About this. It'll destroy your career. You know how people talk. How they pick sides."

I looked at him.

"Just stay," he said. "Please. Just a little longer. Until I can figure this out."

I looked past him at the gate. At the road beyond.

Then I turned around and went back inside.