My Husband Saved His Mistress Instead of Me

The hospital room was dark and freezing.

Green light from the heart monitor washed over the foot of my bed. My legs felt like two bags of crushed gravel, throbbing with a dull, sickening pulse. I couldn't move them. I couldn't even wiggle my toes.

Around midnight, soft footsteps stopped just outside my cracked door.

I recognized the smell first. It was Layne’s perfume—heavy, sweet vanilla. Then came her voice, low and teasing.

"She’s just a cripple now, Jax," Layne murmured. "She should be grateful anyone even bothers to stay with her."

I held my breath. The bedsheets bunched beneath my fingers. I waited for Jaxson to snap at her. I waited for him to say that I was his wife, that I had almost died.

Instead, Jaxson let out a quiet laugh.

"I know," he replied softly. "Just give it a few days. Let the shock wear off. I have to play the good guy for now."

Layne giggled. The sound was thin and sharp, like a needle scraping glass. Their footsteps faded down the hall together.

Inside the dark room, something in me snapped.

It didn't hurt. It didn't burn. It was just a quiet, freezing click. The warmth drained out of my chest, taking five years of devotion with it. The girl who had cooked his meals, funded his failing dream, and kept quiet to protect his pride died right there on that hospital mattress.

I stared at the acoustic tiles on the ceiling. My eyes stayed completely dry.

***

Jaxson came back the next morning at nine. He wore a fresh shirt and carried his leather briefcase. He smelled like expensive cologne and clean shower gel.

"The doctor says your vitals are stable," he said, setting his coffee on my bedside table. "That’s good news. The company is having an emergency board meeting today about the earthquake damages. I can't stay long."

I looked at him. Really looked at him. I saw the neat comb of his hair, the gold watch on his wrist, and the hollow emptiness behind his eyes.

"I want a divorce, Jaxson."

The words came out flat and clear. No shake. No tears.

Jaxson stopped unbuttoning his coat. He stared at me for two seconds, then chuckled. It was a dry, patronizing sound.

"A divorce?" He shook his head, smiling like I was a cranky toddler. "Em, you’re just emotional from the trauma. You had major surgery yesterday. People don’t make life decisions when they’re hopped up on painkillers."

"I am completely sober," I said. "And I want a divorce."

He walked over and patted the back of my hand. His fingers felt cold, like plastic.

"Look at you, Em. You can’t even walk to the bathroom by yourself. Who’s going to take care of you? Who’s going to pay for your physical therapy?" He sighed, putting on the face of a patient, long-suffering saint. "I’m not abandoning you. I’m staying. So stop being dramatic."

His phone chimed in his pocket before I could answer. He glanced at the screen. Layne's name flashed in bold letters.

"I have to take this," he said, already turning his back on me. "Get some sleep. We’ll pretend you never said that."

He walked out, pulling the door shut behind him.

I reached over to the rolling tray and picked up my phone. My hands were steady. I opened the contacts app, scrolling down past the doctors, past the real estate agents, straight to a single word.

*Dad.*

I hadn't called that number in five years. Not since the day I packed a single suitcase, left the penthouse in Manhattan, and told the most powerful man in New York that I wanted an ordinary life with an ordinary man.

My thumb hovered over the screen. The glass reflected my pale, bruised face.

Not yet, I thought. He needed to show me every last drop of his cruelty first.

I locked the screen and laid the phone face down on the sheets.

***

Jaxson barely came around for the next three days, but Layne did.

She always knew when the nurses finished their rounds. She would slip into the room wearing oversized sunglasses and four-inch heels, her crimson lips pulled into a bright, fake smile.

"Poor Emberlynn," Layne whispered on Thursday afternoon. She perched herself on the edge of my mattress, deliberately jostling my shattered legs. Pain spiked through my hips, but I didn't flinch. I just stared at her.

"Jaxson came over to my place last night," Layne purred, admiring her fresh manicure. "He was so tired, Em. He laid his head in my lap and cried. He said your clinginess disgusts him. He said marrying you was the biggest mistake of his life."

I didn't answer. Silence was the only weapon I had left.

By Saturday, she grew bolder.

The door clicked open around lunch. This time, Layne wasn't alone. She held a thick leather leash in her hand. At the end of the strap was Bruno, her muscular pit bull.

My heart seized against my ribs.

"Look who came to visit," Layne cooed, tugging the dog toward my bed.

"Take him out," I whispered. My voice cracked. "Layne. Get him out."

"Oh, don't be rude, Em. Bruno just wanted to say hello."

Layne dropped the leash. The dog lunged forward, planting his heavy front paws directly onto the edge of my white blanket. He snuffled loudly, his wet nose brushing against my cast, sending dog hair floating into the air.

My chest tightened instantly.

A wave of heat rushed across my neck. Red hives erupted across my arms, itching like acid. My throat began to close, squeezing down until each breath sounded like a dry wheeze.

"Get... him... out," I choked, clawing at the collar of my hospital gown.

Layne tilted her head. Her blue eyes widened in mock surprise. She didn't move an inch to pull the dog back.

"Are you allergic?" she asked, her voice dripping with sweet venom. "That’s strange. Jaxson told me you were just faking that for attention."