The Wife He Threw Away for His Brother's Widow

### Chapter 3

"Tell her to get out already!" Alice shrieked, her eyes bloodshot as she thrashed against him. She was naked, clinging to my equally bare husband, right in front of me.

The impact of that image defied words.

I dug my nails into my palms until the pain pushed back the wave of nausea. I had no doubt that one more second and I'd vomit all over them and that revolting pink waterbed.

Fortunately, Alice's frantic urging meant Dustin didn't so much as glance at the documents.

His pen slashed across every signature line, fast and careless, like he was swatting away a fly. Then he lifted his head and fixed me with a look that said get out. Now.

I didn't linger. I grabbed the papers, turned on my heel, and slammed the door behind me.

The bang echoed down the hallway like a declaration—three years of marriage, shattered beyond repair.

I made it to the top of the stairs before my legs gave out. I slid to the floor, curled against the wall, and crumpled into myself. A bitter laugh escaped, tangled with tears I couldn't stop and blood that hadn't yet dried.

A long time passed before I wiped the mess of blood and tears from my face and forced myself upright.

"Cecily."

I turned. Dustin had followed me out. He'd thrown on loungewear, but it did nothing to hide the angry red marks across his chest—hickeys and scratch lines, vivid as accusations.

I thought he might say something. Ask about the documents. Ask whether the gash on my face needed tending.

"Don't come in unannounced again. It upsets Alice."

That was all. A cold warning. A dismissal.

"Don't worry." My voice came out so calm it startled even me. "I won't be around to upset your mistress anymore. I'm grabbing a few things and leaving, Mr. Delgado."

The word mistress landed like a slap. His expression curdled.

But I was already walking toward the guest room.

Dustin had moved all my belongings in there long ago—locked everything away so the sight of my things wouldn't upset Alice.

His gifts filled half the room. Plush teddy bears. Limited-edition Chanel bags flown in from overseas. A museum of devotion from a man who no longer existed.

Back then, he'd chased me like a man possessed. He knew I loved Chanel, so he had people ship the latest collections from abroad. He knew I loved teddy bears, so he'd bring one home from every business trip. I'd kept every single piece, imagining the day I'd have a child and could tell her the story of how her mom and dad fell in love.

I shoved it all into a suitcase. Fast. Without a shred of sentimentality.

A man's silhouette appeared in the doorway. "You're taking all of that?"

My hands didn't stop. "No. I'm throwing it away."

He paused, as if he'd misheard. "Throwing it away? All of it? These are gifts I gave you. You always treasured them. You said you'd keep them forever."

I didn't look up. I kept stuffing things into the suitcase. "People get tired of old things. That's human nature. Doesn't matter if it's a person or a possession—once it's old, you don't need it anymore."

Something strange crossed his face, a flicker of displeasure he couldn't quite mask. He wasn't used to this version of me. The Cecily who used to gaze up at him adoringly, who cherished every smile, every gift—how could she possibly throw his presents away?

He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, the housekeeper appeared in the doorway.

"Sir, the missus isn't feeling well. You should go check on her right away."

Dustin's expression shifted instantly to alarm. He tossed out a parting line without looking back: "Fine, throw them out. I'll buy you new ones. Finish packing and leave."

He was gone before the words finished hanging in the air. Hurried footsteps pounded up the staircase.

I smiled bitterly. He didn't need to tell me twice. I didn't want to spend another second in this house.

I crammed the last of it into the suitcase, grabbed only a small bag of essentials, and stepped out of the guest room. The moment I did, hushed laughter drifted from around the staircase landing—two of the household staff, voices low but not low enough.

"The missus really hit the jackpot, didn't she? He spoils her rotten. Cooks all three meals himself, carries the plates right to her. Honestly, his cooking's better than any restaurant."

My feet stopped moving.

"Right?" another voice chimed in. "Compared to Miss Harding, don't you think she's the one who acts like the real Mrs. Delgado? If you ask me, it's only a matter of time before the Harding girl gets tossed out for good."

"Shh, keep it down…"

"Oh, relax. She can't hear us."

I stood there, perfectly still.

Dustin used to refuse to set foot in a kitchen. He'd said a man's hands were meant for making money, not holding a spatula.

He was impossibly picky about food—he'd take a few bites of restaurant meals and push the plate away. So I cooked every meal myself, rotating through recipes to keep him interested. Some nights I'd spend three or four hours in the kitchen just to perfect a single dish he loved.

Yet somehow, in the year I hadn't known about, he'd taught himself to cook. For Alice.

All that tenderness I thought belonged to me had been given to someone else long ago.

No. Maybe it had never been mine to begin with.

The gossip continued, but I walked past as if I'd heard nothing, heading straight for the front door.

A slender, pale hand blocked my path.

Alice.

She wore an obscenely short lace nightgown, the hem barely grazing the tops of her thighs. The smell clung to her—that unmistakable, nauseating musk of what had just happened upstairs—and it flooded my nostrils.

I was about to tell her to move when she produced something from behind her hand.

A pregnancy test.

Two unmistakable red lines filled my vision, and the vein at my temple began to throb.

"I'm pregnant." Alice's smile spread wide, dripping with triumph and venom, like a snake flicking its tongue to show off a fresh kill. "Dustin was thrilled when he found out."

Her lips kept moving. "You saw it all just now, didn't you? To celebrate our baby, he was absolutely insatiable with me. That waterbed? He bought it just for me. Said it makes things more… comfortable."

Her eyes locked onto mine, hungry for the breakdown. Waiting for the tears. Waiting for me to fall apart and flee the way I always had before.

But I was eerily calm. I refused to give her what she wanted.

My lack of reaction infuriated her.

Frustration radiated off her like heat from a furnace, so intense her smug smile began to crack at the edges. She leaned closer, voice dropping to something more vicious.

"Oh," she murmured, soft and poisonous, like an old friend sharing a secret. "I know what will break you."

She brought her lips to my ear and spoke slowly, savoring every word:

"For instance… that baby you lost six months ago. Did you really think it was an accident?"

Every muscle in my body locked.

My blood turned to ice water.

"What did you just say?"