When His Mistress Took Everything I Ever Loved

The candles on the homemade chocolate cake flickered in the dim light of our Brooklyn apartment. I'd spent three hours baking it, using the last of our groceries and a recipe I'd memorized from the library's cookbook section. Twenty-eight candles—one for each year of Cassian's life.

"Happy birthday to you," I whispered to myself, adjusting the vintage watch I'd saved for months to buy. It wasn't expensive, but it was elegant—something Cassian could wear to his new office downtown.

The door clicked open at 11:47 PM.

"Selena?" Cassian's voice was slurred, his tie loosened around his neck. The scent of expensive perfume—something floral and heady—clung to his suit jacket.

"You're home." I stood from the couch, wiping flour from my apron. "I made cake."

His eyes, usually so warm when they looked at me, were unfocused. "You didn't have to wait up."

"I wanted to." I stepped closer, reaching for his hand. "Happy birthday, Cass."

Something changed in his expression—a flicker of recognition, maybe even longing. He pulled me against him, his lips finding mine with an urgency that surprised me. His hands gripped my waist, then slid lower.

"Cassian?" I whispered against his mouth.

"Shh," he murmured, walking me backward toward our bed. "I need this."

His movements were aggressive, almost desperate. I'd never seen him like this—not with me. This wasn't the careful, loving Cassian who'd held me through countless nights in our tiny apartment.

"Kennedy," he whispered against my ear, his breath hot and wine-scented.

The name hit me like ice water. I froze, but he didn't notice—his eyes were closed, lost in whatever fantasy had consumed him. He collapsed onto me, heavy and suddenly asleep.

I lay beneath him, my heart hammering against my ribs. Kennedy? Who was Kennedy?

---

Morning light filtered through our curtains as I stared at the ceiling. Cassian's arm was draped across my waist, his breathing steady and untroubled.

"Cassian," I said softly, pushing his arm away. "We need to talk."

He groaned, rolling onto his back. "Can't it wait? I have that meeting with Howard Industries at nine."

"Who's Kennedy?"

His eyes snapped open. For a moment—just a moment—I saw panic flash across his face before he composed himself.

"What are you talking about?" He sat up, running a hand through his disheveled hair.

"You said her name last night." My voice sounded small, even to myself. "When we were..."

"Selena." He sighed, his tone shifting to something patronizing. "I was exhausted. The investors took us out for drinks after the dinner. I was probably mumbling about work."

"Investors?" I repeated. "I thought you were at a business dinner."

"It was both." He stood abruptly, heading toward the bathroom. "I'm going to be late if we keep this up."

"Cassian!" I followed him, standing in the doorway as he splashed water on his face. "You came home smelling like perfume."

He looked at me in the mirror, his expression hardening. "Are you seriously doing this right now? On my birthday?"

Guilt twisted in my stomach. "No, I just—"

"Because it sounds like you're jealous." He turned to face me, towel in hand. "Kennedy is a colleague. A male colleague. And if you must know, his wife was at the dinner too. She probably hugged me goodbye."

"I'm sorry." The words tumbled out automatically. "I shouldn't have assumed."

He softened, pulling me into an embrace. "It's okay. But next time, maybe trust me?"

---

The shower hissed in the background as I sat on our bed, staring at Cassian's phone on the nightstand. It lit up with a notification.

Kennedy Ryan: Good morning! Can't stop thinking about last night 😘

My finger hovered over the screen. Don't do it, Selena. Trust him.

But I couldn't shake the way he'd said that name, the way he'd looked at me like I was someone else.

Before I could stop myself, I picked up the phone. The screen unlocked—he'd never changed his passcode from my birthday.

Instagram notifications showed Kennedy Ryan had tagged him in a post.

With trembling fingers, I opened the app.

There they were—Cassian and Kennedy Ryan. She was stunning, with glossy dark hair and perfect makeup. The caption read: "Amazing night at the Hamptons estate! #BusinessAndPleasure #NewConnections"

The photo showed them at a private party, champagne flutes in hand. But what froze my blood was Cassian's arm—identifiable by the braided leather bracelet I'd made him last Christmas—wrapped around her waist.

The timestamp: 10:42 PM. Last night.

I scrolled through her profile. Kennedy Ryan, Manhattan socialite, PR executive, Harvard graduate.

Not a male colleague.

Not his wife.

The shower shut off. I heard Cassian humming—actually humming—as he towel-dried his hair.

My hands shook as I carefully replaced the phone and walked to the window, staring out at the Brooklyn skyline as my world tilted sideways.