The Passenger Seat He Saved for His Mistress

"Please don't misunderstand Victor," she said, her voice sweet and soft, thick with tears.

"Those things… I dropped them in the car by accident. You've got it all wrong, really."

Victor turned at once, planting himself in front of Marion like a wall, frowning at me.

"You heard her. It's a misunderstanding."

"She's timid. Don't frighten her."

I stared at the way his arm went up to shield her without a thought, and my stomach turned over.

Four years. Four years of carsickness so bad I'd nearly black out, begging to sit up front.

He always said, "Don't be difficult. The back seat's safer."

When my period cramps left me sweating through my clothes, all he ever offered was, "Drink more hot water."

Not once did he keep a single heat patch on hand for me.

So it wasn't that he didn't understand. It wasn't that he was just oblivious.

He'd simply given all his tenderness, all his special treatment, to someone else.

I turned and walked away. One more look at the two of them was enough to make me sick.

Behind me, Victor's voice dropped to a low warning.

"Today ends here."

"Pull any more stunts, Edith, and you'll regret it."

Back at my desk, I didn't cry.

There was just something like broken glass packed into my chest, every breath dragging across the sharp edges.

I'd barely sat down when someone posted a photo in the company's anonymous group chat. A close-up of that black lace underwear.

The caption read: "Director Delgado's exclusive front-seat passenger got exposed today. Guess who the lucky lady is?"

The message dropped and the group went up like a bomb.

The crudest guesses and reaction stickers flew everywhere.

Victor, this time you can't control it, no matter how hard you try.

I'd thought that after work, Victor would at least give me some kind of explanation.

Even a fake one. Even a halfhearted one.

Instead, what I got was a louder slap.

I pushed open the door of the apartment Victor and I rented together.

In the entryway sat a pair of pink heels that weren't mine.

The living room lights were on.

Marion was curled up on the sofa, wrapped in my cashmere blanket, crying softly.

And Victor, the man I'd loved for four years.

He was in the open kitchen, head bent, brewing her hot ginger tea.

His movements were practiced, the ratio of brown sugar to ginger slices so precise it might have been rehearsed a hundred times.

I stood frozen in the doorway of my own home, like an unwelcome guest.

He heard the door, looked back, saw me. Not a flicker of surprise.

He only lowered his voice further, soothing Marion.

"Don't be scared. She's not a bad person."

"Edith just loves me too much. She can't handle it right now. She's a little out of control emotionally."

That sentence sickened me more than if he'd just admitted to cheating.

So lightly, he'd taken my pain, my breaking apart, and labeled it as cheap, out-of-control love.

I walked in. The click of my heels against the floor rang out sharp in the quiet living room.

"Marion, why are you in my home?"

Marion shot up from the sofa at once, clutching the blanket tighter, every inch the startled little rabbit.

"I'm sorry. Everyone at the company was talking about me today, and I… I was too scared to go back to the dorm alone."

Victor came over carrying the finished ginger tea and demanded coldly,

"Edith, do you have to push someone to the edge like this?"

My eyes fell on that cashmere blanket, and my voice went cold.

"That blanket. Last year, when I had a high fever and was shaking with chills, I wanted to buy one."

"You said three thousand for a blanket was too expensive. Not worth it."

"In the end, I bought it myself, on my own credit card."

He cut me off impatiently, brows knotted tight.

"It's just a blanket. When did you turn into someone this petty, this mean?"