The Wife He Threw Away for His Brother's Widow

### Chapter 2

There was a time when Dustin's voice—low, magnetic, rough at the edges—could make my knees buckle just by saying my name.

Now there was no warmth in it at all. The two syllables left his mouth like a sentence being handed down, and the cheek he'd slapped throbbed all over again.

I kept my expression blank and forced my voice flat.

"Did you forget? My prenatal checkup is the day after tomorrow."

Of course he didn't remember. He'd never once gone with me since I'd gotten pregnant. I'd brought it up a few times, and every time he'd given me the same pained look: "Sorry, Cecily. I'm afraid Alice will find out and have another episode. She's only just started to stabilize."

He was quiet for a moment, studying my expressionless face. Then: "You know I only said that about getting rid of the baby to calm her down."

I didn't answer. Was I supposed to thank him?

I was done groveling. Weakness and tears only built monuments to the enemy's victory. Every smug smile Alice wore was cemented with my humiliation.

When I continued to ignore him, Dustin did something unprecedented—he volunteered. "I should be free in two days. I can go with you."

I nearly laughed out loud. The classic routine: crack the whip, then offer a sugar cube.

Once upon a time, I'd been a beggar at love's door, hoping he might spare me a scrap of affection between his visits to Alice. A crumb of sweetness from him could keep me glowing for three days.

Not anymore. I wanted nothing from him.

"No need—"

Before I could finish, his phone rang, the sound ricocheting off the concrete walls of the parking garage.

That ringtone. I knew it well—a custom tone he'd set just for Alice. Tacky and grating, but it suited her perfectly.

Dustin glanced at the screen. His entire face changed. The cold, tight line of his mouth softened into something tender. That granite jaw, perpetually carved in ice, thawed under the dim garage lights until it was almost gentle.

He turned his back to me. When he spoke, his voice was silk—careful, reverent, as if he'd become a different man entirely.

"Yeah, all taken care of. I'm on my way to you right now."

He hung up and slid the phone into his jacket.

"I need to get back to her. If I don't, her depression will flare up again." His tone turned clipped, urgent. No "Does your face still hurt?" No "Where are you headed—do you need a ride?"

He was simply in a rush to return to her side.

"Go. She needs you."

A cold laugh escaped me. I slammed my foot on the gas and tore out of that suffocating space.

In the rearview mirror, Dustin's silhouette ducked into another car. We drove off in opposite directions—our lives splitting further apart with every mile. And yet he assumed I'd always be standing right where he left me.

After all, I once loved him enough to give up everything.

By the time I arrived at what used to be "home" with the divorce papers in my bag, night had already fallen.

I'd poured my heart into this house when we got married. I'd designed it myself—handpicked every material, supervised every detail. Every vintage brick, every light fixture, every potted plant, chosen to make it exactly the way I wanted. I'd believed this would be the castle where Dustin and I spent the rest of our lives together.

Then Alice moved in as the lady of the house, and I lost even the right to walk through the front door.

I swallowed the bitterness churning inside me and punched in the door code.

Wrong. I tried again. Wrong. And again. Wrong.

I paused. Then, with something close to masochistic certainty, I keyed in Alice's birthday.

The door opened.

The cold hit me like being thrown into a frozen lake.

Dustin had once told me this code was our wedding anniversary—that he would never change it. Turns out promises could be discarded as easily as feathers on the wind.

I stepped inside, and the house was unrecognizable.

The warm vintage brown tones I loved had been replaced by garish pink. My carefully chosen sofa, my furniture—all gone.

In their place: a rhinestone-encrusted princess sofa, lace-trimmed curtains, an entire wall covered in pink feather decorations. Every inch dripped with a saccharine "little princess" aesthetic. Alice's taste, everywhere I looked.

I was a stranger in my own home.

"Oh? Miss Harding?"

Behind me, the elderly housekeeper hurried over, her eyes sweeping me up and down in surprise.

"What are you doing here? Mr. Delgado gave strict orders—you're absolutely not allowed inside. If the missus sees you, it could trigger another episode."

Miss Harding? The missus?

Those two titles from her mouth landed like slaps.

Mockery flooded my eyes. I turned and headed straight for the stairs.

"You can't go up there! Mr. Delgado is busy!" The housekeeper's voice pitched higher with panic as she reached out to grab me.

"Get out of my way."

I shoved past her and took the stairs two at a time.

The master bedroom door was ajar. I pushed it open and walked in.

My brain whited out.

Where my custom double bed used to stand, directly facing the doorway, was an enormous waterbed.

On it, two bodies tangled together.

Alice's head was thrown back, moaning shamelessly. The man on top of her, driving into her with that perfect, powerful torso—I would have recognized him if he'd been reduced to ash.

I stared at the muscles of his back, the ones my hands had traced a thousand times. I watched the way he buried himself in her, lost in her, intoxicated. Time froze.

It wasn't until Alice's eyes locked onto mine—her moans sharpening into a scream—that I snapped back to reality.

So this was what the housekeeper meant by "Mr. Delgado is busy."

So this was how thoroughly he played along with her. All the way to the bed.

My vision darkened. My legs nearly gave out. I fought with everything I had not to turn and run. Then Dustin looked over his shoulder and saw me. The flash of panic in his eyes dissolved instantly into raw fury.

"Get out!"

Alice thrashed in his arms like a woman possessed. "Dustin Delgado, have you no shame?! You brought your mistress into our home?! I'll kill you, you bastard!"

She slapped him hard across the face, then snatched the ashtray from the nightstand and hurled it at my head.

Crack. Pain exploded across my forehead. Something warm slid down my cheek, and my vision went red.

The agony turned my whole body numb, as though someone had split my heart open with an axe. But Dustin didn't so much as glance my way. He held Alice's hand, his voice low and coaxing:

"Don't be upset, sweetheart. I cut things off with her a long time ago."

"Your hand's all red. Does it hurt?"

A crimson handprint blazed across his cheek, and he wore it like a badge of honor.

I stood in the doorway, blood streaming down my face—the picture of a disgraced mistress, wretched and deserving of every bit of it.

A laugh broke out of me.

I lifted my hand, wiped the blood from my face, and pulled my gaze away from them. When I spoke, my voice was as steady as if I were discussing quarterly numbers.

"Mr. Delgado, I just need your signature. I landed the new project for the company. Once you sign, it's officially in effect."

I pulled a stack of documents from my bag—the divorce agreement and my resignation letter tucked neatly between the project papers—and flipped to the signature page.

I'd nearly killed myself for Delgado Group these past few years. The most grueling projects, the most impossible clients, the most cutthroat negotiations—I'd brought in hundreds of millions for him, at minimum. Dustin knew my value better than anyone. There was no way he'd let me resign.

And the marriage?

I'd once been intoxicated by his ferocious possessiveness. He'd get jealous if I so much as glanced at another man. He'd pull me into his arms and growl, "You're mine. Only mine." But when he stopped loving, he'd sooner shred what he no longer wanted than allow it to slip from his grasp on its own.

So I wasn't sure he'd agree to a divorce.

As I held the stack of papers out to him, my fingertips trembled—terrified he might actually flip through and read every page.