My Husband Moved His Mistress Into Our Home

Lilly moved in on a Tuesday. She arrived with three Louis Vuitton suitcases and a smile that looked like it had been painted on. Cole carried her bags to the guest room. I stood in the hallway and watched.

"Thanks for understanding, Maren," Lilly said softly. She touched my arm. Her fingers were cold. "It's just for a little while."

I pulled my arm back. Not hard. Just enough. "Sure."

By Wednesday morning, her things were everywhere. Her makeup covered the master bathroom counter. Her shoes lined the closet floor next to mine. I opened my dresser drawer and found her silk pajamas folded on top of my sweaters.

I picked them up and walked to the guest room. The door was open. Lilly sat on the bed, scrolling through her phone. She looked up when I stepped inside.

"These are yours," I said.

She glanced at the pajamas, then back at me. "Oh. I thought we were sharing space now. Cole said it was fine."

I set them on the bed. "They're yours."

She smiled. "Of course. Sorry."

I walked out. Behind me, I heard her laugh—quiet, like she was trying not to let me hear it.

Thursday morning, I came downstairs and found her at the kitchen table wearing my robe. The silk one my father had brought back from Milan. She was drinking coffee and reading something on her tablet. She didn't look up.

"That's mine," I said.

She glanced down at the robe like she'd just noticed it. "Oh God, I'm so sorry. I grabbed the first thing I saw. I'll wash it and give it right back."

She didn't move to take it off.

I poured my own coffee and left the kitchen. My hands were shaking. I set the cup down on the hall table and pressed my thumb against my ring finger until the shaking stopped.

Friday, the lilies arrived. Huge white arrangements in crystal vases, one in every room. The living room. The dining room. The hallway. Even the bedroom. The smell hit me the second I walked through the door. My throat tightened. My eyes started to burn.

I found Lilly in the living room, arranging stems in a vase by the window.

"I'm allergic to lilies," I said.

She turned around, her face all concern. "Oh no. Really? Cole didn't mention it."

"I need you to get rid of them."

"Of course." She set down the stem she was holding. "I'll move them to my room. I just love lilies so much. They remind me of my grandmother."

She picked up one vase and carried it toward the guest room. The other four stayed exactly where they were.

By Saturday my eyes were swollen half-shut. I took antihistamines and stayed in the bedroom with the door closed. Cole came in once, looked at me, and said, "You're being dramatic."

I didn't answer. He left.

Sunday evening, I made dinner. Pasta with garlic and olive oil, the way Cole used to like it before Lilly moved in and started requesting things like seared scallops and truffle risotto. I stood at the stove, stirring the pan, and felt Lilly walk into the kitchen behind me.

"Smells good," she said.

I didn't turn around. "Thanks."

She moved closer. I heard the kettle click on. Then I heard water running. I glanced over my shoulder and saw her filling a mug, steam rising from the spout.

She turned toward me, mug in both hands. Her face was calm. Then she poured the boiling water over her own hand.

For three seconds, she didn't make a sound. Just stood there, water running over her knuckles, her skin turning red. Then she screamed.

The mug hit the floor and shattered. Lilly collapsed against the counter, cradling her hand, sobbing so hard she could barely breathe. "She burned me! Oh God, Maren burned me!"

Cole came running. He didn't look at me. He went straight to Lilly, took her hand, examined the burn. His face went white.

"What the hell did you do?" he said.

I stood there with the wooden spoon still in my hand. "I didn't—"

"Don't," he snapped. "Don't lie to me."

Lilly sobbed louder. Cole pulled out his phone and called someone. A doctor, I realized. He kept his arm around Lilly's shoulders the whole time, murmuring to her, telling her it was okay, she was safe now.

I set the spoon down. I turned off the stove. I walked out of the kitchen and went upstairs. Behind me, Lilly's sobs echoed through the apartment.

Cole didn't speak to me for three days.

He slept in the guest room. I heard them through the wall at night—her crying softly, him comforting her. On the third night, I lay in our bed alone and stared at the ceiling. The lilies were still in the bedroom. My throat was raw. My eyes burned.

On Wednesday morning, Cole finally came into the bedroom. He stood in the doorway with his arms crossed.

"You need to apologize," he said.

I sat up. "For what?"

"Don't play stupid, Maren. You know what you did."

"I didn't do anything."

He stepped inside and closed the door. His voice dropped. "Lilly is traumatized. She's afraid to be in the same room as you. And honestly? I don't blame her."

I stared at him. At the man I'd knelt in the rain for. At the man whose company only existed because I'd begged my father to save him.

"You want me to apologize," I said slowly.

"On your knees," Cole said. He straightened his cufflinks. "In front of her. So she knows you mean it."

The room went very quiet. I could hear my own heartbeat.

"And if I don't?"

He smiled. It wasn't a kind smile. "Then I file for divorce. And I make sure you leave with nothing."

I looked at him for a long time. Then I said, "I need to think."

He laughed. "You do that." He turned and walked out, leaving the door open behind him.

I sat there in the bed, surrounded by lilies, my throat closing, my eyes burning. I picked up my phone. Mr. Henderson's contact stared back at me.

I typed: *Tomorrow. Pull the team.*

I hit send.

Then I got dressed, walked downstairs, and poured myself coffee. Lilly was in the living room, her bandaged hand resting on a pillow. She looked up when I walked past. I didn't look back.

Something inside me had finally, irreversibly frozen. And I was done being invisible.