My Racing Star Chose His Mistress Over Our Baby

Deacon insisted on the dinner. He said it would be good for us. He said it would remind everyone that we were solid. He used the word 'solid' like it was a fact instead of a wish.

I did not want a birthday dinner. I wanted to be on a plane. But I had not told him yet. I had not told anyone. So I stood in our kitchen and watched the caterers arrange salmon on white plates and I smiled when people arrived.

There were twenty guests. Racing people. Sponsors. A few journalists I used to work with. They hugged me and said I looked beautiful and asked where I got my dress. I thanked them. I poured wine. I was very good at this.

Deacon moved through the room with his hand on the small of my back. He kissed my temple when someone made a toast. He laughed at the right moments. He was performing. I was performing. We were both so good at it.

Halfway through the main course, the doorbell rang.

Deacon stood up. "I'll get it."

I did not look up from my plate. I was cutting a piece of salmon into smaller and smaller pieces. I had not eaten any of it.

When he came back, Aleyna was with him.

She wore a black slip dress and heels that made her legs look a mile long. Her hair was down. She smiled at the table like she was surprised to see all of us, like she had just happened to be in the neighborhood.

"I'm so sorry," she said. Her voice was light. Easy. "I didn't realize it was a whole thing. Deacon mentioned dinner and I thought—"

"It's fine," Deacon said quickly. He was already pulling out a chair for her. "We've got plenty."

No one said anything. A few people glanced at me. I set down my fork.

"Of course," I said. My voice was smooth. Trained. "Stay."

Aleyna sat. Deacon sat beside her. A waiter brought another place setting.

I looked at her wrist.

She was wearing the bracelet.

It was delicate. Silver. A tiny star pendant hanging from the chain. The same one I had shown Deacon in a boutique window six months ago. The same one he had said was custom-made, one of a kind, just for me.

I had never seen it again after that day. I thought he had forgotten.

But he had not forgotten.

Aleyna lifted her wine glass. The star caught the light. She did not look at me. She did not need to.

Across the table, one of the journalists—a woman named Claire—was staring at the bracelet. Then at me. Her mouth opened slightly. She knew. She had been there the day I showed Deacon the window.

I stood up.

The table went quiet.

"Excuse me," I said. I walked out of the dining room. I did not hurry. I walked to the kitchen and I stood at the counter with my back to the door and I counted my breaths. In for four. Out for four.

I heard footsteps behind me.

"Autumn." Deacon's voice. Low. Annoyed. "What are you doing."

I turned around. He was standing in the doorway with his arms crossed.

"Where did she get the bracelet," I said.

He blinked. "What?"

"The star bracelet. The one you said was custom. One of a kind. Where did she get it."

He exhaled through his nose. "I don't know. Maybe she bought one that looks similar. Why does it matter."

"It's identical."

"Autumn." He stepped closer. His voice dropped into that patient tone he used when he thought I was being unreasonable. "You're being paranoid. It's a bracelet. It's not a big deal."

"You gave it to her."

"I didn't."

"You're lying."

His jaw tightened. "I'm not doing this. Not tonight. Not in front of everyone."

"Then leave," I said.

He stared at me. "What?"

"Leave." My voice was very calm. Very clear. "Take her with you. I want you both out of my house."

"Your house?" He laughed. It was a short, sharp sound. "This is our house. You're being ridiculous."

"It's my birthday," I said quietly. "And I'm asking you to leave."

For a long moment he just looked at me. Like he was waiting for me to take it back. Like he could not believe I had said it out loud.

I did not take it back.

He turned and walked out. I heard him say something low to Aleyna. I heard chairs scrape. I heard the front door close.

When I walked back into the dining room, the table was silent. Claire was staring at her plate. A few people looked at me with something like pity. Or respect. I could not tell which.

"I'm sorry," I said. My voice did not shake. "Thank you all for coming. I think I need to call it a night."

No one argued. They left quietly. They hugged me on the way out. They said they understood.

When the last guest was gone, I stood in the empty dining room and looked at the table. Twenty plates. Twenty glasses. Aleyna's chair was still pulled out.

I picked up her wine glass. I carried it to the kitchen. I poured it down the sink and I washed it and I set it on the counter to dry.

Then I went upstairs and I pulled my suitcase out of the closet and I started to pack.

***

Two days later, I was standing in my father's study when the news broke.

Aleyna had crashed during practice. Her car had spun out on a turn and hit the barrier. She was fine. Completely fine. The car was barely damaged. But she was in the medical center. And she was crying on camera.

"I just can't focus," she said. Her voice was shaking. Her eyes were red. "The hostility—it's been so hard. I know Autumn doesn't like me. I've tried. I've really tried. But I can't keep doing this."

The reporter leaned in. "Are you saying Autumn Ellis is affecting your performance?"

Aleyna looked down. She wiped her eyes. "I don't want to say that. But—yes. I think so."

My father muted the television.

"She staged it," I said.

He looked at me. "You're sure."

"Yes."

He nodded slowly. He did not ask how I knew. He just believed me.

My phone buzzed. A text from Deacon.

*You need to apologize. Publicly. This has gone too far.*

I stared at the screen.

Not a question. Not a request. A command.

I typed back one word.

*No.*

I hit send. I turned off my phone. I looked at my father.

"When does my flight leave," I said.

"Tomorrow night," he said quietly. "But Autumn—"

"I'll be ready."

He studied my face for a long moment. Then he nodded.

I walked out of his study. I went to my room. I finished packing.

I did not cry. There was still nothing in me to spill.