My Husband's Mistress Wore Red to Grandma's Funeral

1: 1

On the second morning of our marriage, Solomon Sanchez got up at five and cooked a whole table of breakfast, made with love.

I followed the smell to the kitchen.

I'd just picked up a soup dumpling, hadn't even gotten it to my mouth, when he slapped it out of my hand and onto the floor.

"That's for Blanchie. She's pregnant and picky, and she asked for my soup dumplings by name."

"Stop fighting her for food. Be reasonable and just order takeout for yourself, okay?"

Something sank in my chest, and I thought back to a post I'd scrolled past a while ago.

"My girl's pregnant, and I just want to spoil her rotten."

"Five-thousand-dollar premium Musang King durian, top grade—she said she wanted it, and I'd sooner rent my own wedding suit than lose a man's dignity over it."

The comments below were split, and one drew the most argument: "Unless the kid is actually yours, you're wasting your time."

I called Solomon without thinking. "Honey, the dry cleaner's here. I couldn't find the suit you changed out of yesterday."

He answered, irritated. "I spent every cent I'd saved these years just to marry you. The suit was rented. It's already been returned."

Inside, I laughed coldly.

"Is that so. Good timing—I've got something to return too."

1

I looked at the red double-happiness cutouts pasted all over the room, and a chill climbed up from the soles of my feet.

Solomon was a stubborn man.

Three years of dating, and he never spent a single extra cent on me.

We always split the bill when we ate out. He had a thing about cleanliness and never touched a cup I'd drunk from.

Even last night, our wedding night, he'd only gone through the motions with me before losing all interest and slipping out to the balcony to smoke alone, brooding.

A few minutes later, he came back to the bedroom.

One of the few romantic moments in a lifetime, and his heart clearly wasn't in it.

It only made me look desperate, flushed and half-reclined on the bed, waiting for him.

Solomon just gave me a cold look. "I'm tired. Going to sleep."

That night, we didn't even sleep under the same blanket.

I told myself it was just his nature, and most of the time I let things go.

I never forced my way into his circle of friends.

But at the wedding reception, a woman in a tight black leather skirt stood surrounded by a pack of his buddies, all of them egging her on—there was no way she wouldn't draw every eye in the room.

"Sol's getting married today, you must be crying your eyes out, huh? Serves you right, always stringing him along, feeding him that nonsense about wanting to be together forever but only as friends, never as a couple."

"Yeah, and once the new bride gets jealous, you're in for it."

The woman gave an indifferent little pout. "A man who ditches his friends for a woman—no loss."

When Solomon walked over with a glass in his hand, she launched herself into his arms from several feet away.

Ignoring the strange looks from everyone, she slid her fingertips down past his collar, tracing the tight, flat eight-pack of his abs.

Then she frowned and pretended to be put off. "Little brother, you've been too busy getting married lately? Not working out at all?"

Solomon's face broke into a wicked grin, and he shot back at her without holding back.

"I don't even want to say it—you've made zero progress on your figure all these years. Nothing to look at."

"That's your fault, from wearing me out."

The two of them traded barbs back and forth, not caring in the least about the embarrassment I couldn't hide on my face.

The relatives and friends around me kept sending me looks loaded with meaning.

"What's with this groom? However wild he wants to be, there's a time and place, isn't there?"

"The bride herself can put up with it, so what are you all getting worked up about? Really something."

I pulled Solomon into a side room, my eyes red, and asked him, "What exactly is going on between you and that woman out there?"