My Husband was Secretly Married to another Woman

Timothy and Mira left with the director to finish whatever bullshit paperwork was still pending. I stayed on the stairs. Arms crossed. Ice in my veins.

Then she came.

Xandria.

All smug and casual, like she didn’t just crawl out of my husband’s bed ten minutes ago.

“Y’know, Charlene,” she purred, her heels clicking slow on each step, “if you didn’t know better, you’d think Elio was Timothy’s son. They’ve got the same eyes. Same little frown when they don’t get their way.”

I didn’t flinch.

“Is that so?” I said, head tilted, voice flat.

She leaned against the railing, twirling a strand of hair like she was flirting with fate.

“Maybe it’s destiny. I mean, blood calls to blood, right?”

I said nothing. She kept talking.

“Elio’s mother must’ve been stunning,” she sighed dramatically, examining her nails. “I mean… just look at that bone structure.”

Then—slow, practiced—she swept her thick hair over one shoulder to reveal a deep red kiss mark blooming on her collarbone.

“Sorry. My husband gets a little impatient sometimes.” She smirked. “Does Timothy ever get… rough with you, too?”

I didn’t blink. I just stared into her eyes and said, “You know what you remind me of, Xandria?”

She tilted her head, curious.

“Rotten fruit in a silver bowl. Looks sweet. Smells expensive. But bite into it—and it’s all worms and perfume.” My voice didn’t rise. I didn’t need to shout. “That’s what he’s like when he’s with you. Spoiled craving spoiled.”

Her smile faltered. The bratty glow dimmed, just for a beat. Then she straightened. But before she could snap something back, her gaze shifted—over my shoulder. She smiled again, this time like she had a secret weapon cocked and loaded.

“Let’s see if he still remembers who trained him…” she whispered, stepping back. “…or if he’s just playing fetch with the wrong master.”

And then she threw herself down the stairs.

“Ahhh!”

I reached out instinctively, caught the edge of her blazer—but of course, the cheap-ass button popped clean off. She tumbled, limbs flailing, until she landed in a heap at the bottom—groaning.

---

Cue the bastard.

Heavy footsteps thundered down the hall, and shoved past me like I didn’t exist. Dropped to his knees beside her.

“Xandria. Baby—hey, talk to me. Xandria.”

She grabbed his arm, clinging like a leech, voice shaky and dramatic.

“Don’t… don’t be mad at Charlene… she’s just never cared for kids the way we do.” She moaned like she’d been hit by a truck. "I—I tried to tell her… Elio’s ours now. She freaked out. Pushed me—”

And then, right on cue—The bitch fainted. Or pretended to. Hard to tell with all the extra mascara running down her face.

I stood frozen. Not from guilt. Not from fear. From the sheer audacity. Timothy turned to me, face blank, but voice ice-cold.

“You know what I hate the most?”He stood slowly, lifting Xandria in his arms. “People who smile at your face… and stab behind your back.”

And just like that, he and his mother walked off—with her. Left me sitting on cold stone steps, bleeding from a scratch I didn’t notice ‘til now.

---

The director rushed out. Poor man looked like he’d swallowed glass.

“Miss Riccardo—are you hurt?”

I stood on my own, brushing off my coat. Blood seeped from my palm. “I’ve volunteered here for years,” I said quietly, tying my silk scarf around my hand.

“Thought that counted for something.”

He didn’t reply.

The children poured out of the cafeteria, laughter echoing through the hall. I spotted Elio running past. Carefree. Sweet.

He watched him fondly.

“Elio’s lucky. He and Mr. Colombo… they really do act like blood.”

My stomach twisted.

---

Back in my car, I stared at my phone for a long time. Then tapped the number I hadn’t called in five years.

The line rang once.

“Well, well… Ms. Riccardo,” came the smooth, dangerous voice. “Didn’t expect to hear from you. Bored of playing house with the mafia prince?”

“Alejandro.” My voice was flat. “Is our engagement still valid?”

He chuckled. "You’re married now, sweetheart. If you’re looking for a side piece, I’m not that cheap.”

“I’m not calling for a thrill.”

Silence.

Then, he got real quiet. “So it’s true,” he said. “He never made you a legal wife, did he?”

My chest tightened.

“Is the engagement still valid or not?”

He leaned into the mic, voice dropping an octave.

“Ms. Riccardo… are you asking to marry me? Or just begging to burn the world down?”

I hung up.

---

I pulled the car to the side of the road.

Ping. A message.

From Xandria.

“What’s it like being a fake wife for five years?”

“Guess what Timothy’s doing right now?”

Attached was a short video.

Timothy... my Timothy... in his dark Armani suit, kneeling in front of her, tying her damn shoelaces like a lapdog.

The cufflinks on his wrist? I picked those.

Birthday gift. Custom-made. Gold-plated initials.

I gripped the phone so hard my palm split open again. Blood smeared across the screen.

Then… it rang.

Xandria.

Her voice came through, smug.

“Charlene, you’ve always been too quick to trust. If you’d taken your time… you might’ve noticed that marriage certificate was fake.”

Silence from my end. Then she added, almost playfully:

“Want me to send you a real one?”

My grip tightened on the phone, jaw clenched, but I didn’t cry. Not this time.

Instead, I scrolled.

Found the clip. The one from two years ago.

Security footage. Private. Grainy. Black-and-white. But crystal clear in meaning.

Timothy.

In my office. On his knees—kissing the hem of my dress. Begging me not to leave.

“Please, Charlene. You're the only one who makes me feel like a man.”

I’d kept that video locked in a vault folder, never meaning to use it. Until now.

Attached. Sent.

I added a single line:

“Guess he kneels for whoever’s holding the leash. Welcome to my leftovers.” And then I blocked her.

Because sometimes, silence after the fire is louder than the scream.