My Husband Told Me to Apologize to His Pregnant Mistress

The limousine glided to a stop at the entrance of the Grand Ballroom. Through the tinted windows, camera flashes already punctuated the night like lightning strikes. I smoothed down my navy dress—simple, understated, forgettable—and waited for Vincenzo to signal that it was time to exit.

He didn't.

Instead, he leaned forward and pressed the button to lower the partition separating us from the driver. "James, let Dalia know we've arrived."

My stomach twisted as I realized she wasn't even in the car with us. Of course not. She was waiting at the entrance like royalty.

"Vincenzo," I began, my voice barely audible over the thumping of my heart. "Perhaps we should—"

He silenced me with a single glance—cold, dismissive, as if I were a stranger who had wandered into his private space.

The door opened. Vincenzo emerged first, his tall figure commanding attention even before the cameras could focus on him. I followed, blinking against the sudden brightness of the flashbulbs.

But Vincenzo didn't wait for me.

Instead, he turned toward the entrance where Dalia stood in her emerald gown, a vision of ethereal beauty bathed in golden light. Her hand rested protectively over her still-flat stomach.

"Dalia," he said, his voice carrying across the red carpet as he extended his arm to her. "You look radiant tonight."

She took his arm with practiced grace, her smile dazzling for the cameras. "Thank you for inviting me, Vincenzo. It means so much to be included in such an important evening."

They began walking the red carpet together, a perfect couple—him in his tailored tuxedo, her in her custom emerald gown. I trailed behind them like an afterthought, like an assistant rather than a wife.

"Mr. Anderson! Miss Myers!" The paparazzi swarmed around them, shouting questions. "Give us a smile!"

Vincenzo obliged, his arm firmly around Dalia's waist now. "Tonight is about celebration," he announced to the cameras. "About new beginnings and the future."

"Are you two officially a couple?" someone shouted.

Vincenzo's smile widened. "We're celebrating something much more important tonight."

I stood there, frozen, as flash after flash captured the moment—the moment my husband publicly claimed another woman while I faded into the background.

---

The ballroom glittered with champagne flutes and diamonds. I sat at our table, picking at my untouched salmon while Vincenzo commanded the room from the podium.

"Friends, colleagues, distinguished guests," his voice boomed through the speakers. "Thank you for joining us for this year's Anderson Foundation Gala."

Applause rippled through the crowd. I watched him—this man I had helped stand again through countless hours of therapy, through sleepless nights and stubborn determination.

"Tonight marks a special occasion," he continued, his gaze sweeping the room before landing on Dalia. "As we look toward the future of the Anderson legacy."

My fingers tightened around my water glass as I realized what was coming.

"I'd like to propose a toast," Vincenzo raised his champagne flute. "To new beginnings, and to the future of the Anderson legacy."

He turned, his eyes finding Dalia in the crowd. "To Dalia, who carries the promise of our future."

The room erupted in applause. Glasses clinked. Whispers buzzed around me.

"Did you know? Is she pregnant?"

"The Anderson heir..."

"Poor Adeline..."

I couldn't breathe. The room spun around me as nausea rose in my throat. I stood abruptly, bumping into a waiter who steadied me with concern.

"Mrs. Anderson? Are you alright?"

"No," I whispered. "I need air."

I fled the ballroom, pushing through the heavy doors toward the restroom. My heels clicked against marble as I rushed down the hallway, tears blurring my vision.

The bathroom was mercifully empty when I burst inside. I gripped the edge of the sink, taking deep breaths to steady myself.

"Running away so soon, Adeline?"

I whirled around to find Dalia leaning against the doorframe, her emerald gown shimmering under the bathroom lights.

"What do you want?" I managed, my voice shaking.

She stepped inside, closing the door behind her. The sweet facade she wore in public melted away, replaced by something cold and calculating.

"I want you to understand your place," she said, her voice low and venomous. "You were never anything more than a paid nurse, Adeline. Vincenzo only tolerated your touch because he was crippled."

I flinched as if she'd slapped me.

"He needed someone to wipe his drool and turn him over every few hours," she continued, her eyes glittering with malice. "That's all you ever were to him."

"That's not true," I whispered, but even as I said it, doubt gnawed at me.

Dalia laughed, the sound sharp as breaking glass. "Oh, but it is. And now that I'm carrying his child—his heir—your services are no longer required." She stepped closer, her perfume overwhelming me. "I'll be moving into the penthouse soon. The nursery in the east wing will be perfect for my baby."

My baby. Not our baby. Hers and Vincenzo's.

She reached out and adjusted my necklace with false kindness. "Don't worry, we'll find a nice little apartment for you somewhere far away from us."

As she turned to leave, her smile returned—the same sweet smile she wore for cameras and society pages.

"Enjoy the rest of the gala, Adeline," she called over her shoulder. "While you still can."