My Husband Said Our House Was Unfinished , His Mistress Answered the Doorl

He looked up at me, his gaze carrying the guarded professionalism of someone used to dealing with strangers. "And you are?"

I handed over my phone, the screen showing a photo of my marriage certificate with Hudson and a screenshot of the purchase contract.

"I'm the registered owner of this apartment."

Marcus Webb studied it for a long time, then asked to see my ID. He cross-checked it several times before finally speaking. "What would you like to know?"

"When was this apartment delivered?"

"End of 2019." He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Over three years ago now."

A buzzing noise filled my skull.

Three and a half years ago was exactly when Hudson told me the building had stalled mid-construction.

"Then who's living in it now?"

Marcus hesitated. Maybe it was the look on my face, but he lowered his voice. "A young woman. Mid-twenties, quite pretty. She said..."

"Said what?"

"That it was her boyfriend's place." He paused. "Your husband."

I gripped the edge of the front counter, my nails digging into the surface.

"I have surveillance footage," he said quietly. "Would you like to see it?"

I nodded.

He pulled up the recordings from the past six months and fast-forwarded through them.

On screen, Hudson appeared at the building entrance again and again. Sometimes carrying grocery bags. Sometimes holding that woman's hand.

They stood downstairs together. She rose on her tiptoes and kissed him. He laughed, pulled her in by the waist, and the two of them disappeared through the entrance together.

Every single one of those dates fell on days he'd told me he was traveling for work.

I stared at the screen. My stomach lurched.

I clamped a hand over my mouth, spun around, and rushed to the restroom. I hunched over the sink, retching and retching, but nothing came up.

Marcus knocked on the door from outside. "Are you alright?"

I splashed water on my face, walked out, and gave him a nod. I didn't say a word.

Somehow I pulled myself together and went home.

When I pushed open the door, Hudson was sitting on the couch watching TV. The moment he saw me, he sprang to his feet. "How come you're home so early?"

"You look terrible." He walked over, reaching for my forehead. "Are you feeling sick?"

I stepped back without thinking.

His hand hung in midair. He blinked, then let out a small laugh. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," I said. "Just tired."

"Then lie down and rest. I'll get you some hot water." He turned toward the kitchen, his voice full of concern. "What do you feel like eating tonight? I'll make it."

I sat on the couch, watching his back.

He moved around the kitchen the same way he had yesterday. The same way he had every day for the past three years.

But all I could see was the surveillance footage playing on a loop in my head.

His arm around that woman's waist. Her rising on her tiptoes to kiss him. His laugh as he pulled her close.

I pressed my hand over my mouth. My stomach heaved again.

Friday night, Hudson told me he had a business trip over the weekend.

"There's a project I need to discuss with a client. They can't come to us, so we're going to them." He talked while he packed. "I'll be back Monday night."

I leaned against the bedroom doorframe and murmured an acknowledgment.

He zipped his suitcase shut, walked over, and wrapped his arms around me. "Make sure you eat properly while I'm gone. Don't just scrape by on whatever."

I nodded.

Early the next morning, I took a cab to his office.

The young receptionist didn't recognize me. "Who are you here to see?"

"Is Hudson Dickerson on a business trip?" I stood at the front desk, not moving.

"And you are?"

"His wife," I said.

She froze, then said nothing.

A middle-aged man walked over from nearby—he looked like one of Hudson's colleagues. He'd overheard our exchange and gave me a slow, appraising look.