When My Husband Protected His Mistress Instead of Me

Three weeks went by.

My life became very quiet. I bought three plates and two bowls from a thrift shop. I made soup. I drank hot peppermint tea from a ceramic mug I had thrown myself three years ago. At night, the rain beat softly against my bedroom window. For the first time in ten years, I did not lie awake listening for the sound of a key in the front door.

Dean, however, was not quiet.

Viviana dropped by my rental on Wednesday evening. She brought two cups of coffee from the corner bakery and sat on my wooden stool.

"Dean hired a private investigator," Viviana said, blowing on the hot lid. "A high-end firm in Bellevue. He’s paying them five hundred dollars an hour to find you."

I took a slow sip of coffee. "He has the divorce papers. He signed them."

"He doesn't care about the papers, Ariah. He's losing his mind." Viviana smiled with cold satisfaction. "And he’s slipping at work."

Word had spread through the courthouse. Dean was known as the firm’s golden boy. He never made mistakes. He read every footnote, checked every citation, and worked until his eyes were red.

Not this week.

Two days ago, Dean missed a mandatory filing deadline for a major civil suit. The judge fined the firm two thousand dollars. Then, yesterday afternoon, he left an ambiguous indemnity clause in a forty-million-dollar corporate merger contract. A junior associate caught it right before the client signed.

Malik Price had called Dean into his corner office. Malik didn't yell. He just took off his reading glasses and looked at Dean across the mahogany desk for two solid minutes. That kind of silence was worse than a scream. It meant Dean's partnership was no longer guaranteed.

"And that’s just the office," Viviana added, leaning forward. "Do you know what he's doing at home?"

"No," I said quietly.

"One of his associates lives two doors down," she said. "Dean doesn't sleep in your bed anymore. He can't. The master bedroom still smells like your Wood Sage & Sea Salt perfume. Every time he walks in, he gags on the guilt. So he sleeps on the living room sofa with his work coat pulled over his chest."

I looked down at the dark wood of my small dining table. I could picture him there. Dean, with his long legs cramped on the stiff leather couch, staring up at the ceiling.

"The neighbor said Dean leaves the lights on until three in the morning," Viviana continued. "Sometimes he walks down the hall and just stands in the doorway of the empty guest room. He stares at the bare mattress where your grandmother’s quilt used to be. He stands there for twenty minutes without moving. Like he expects you to appear out of the dark."

A familiar ache tightened in my throat, but I swallowed it down. Dean wasn't mourning me. He was mourning his own control.

On Friday morning, I saw the gray sedan.

It was parked across the street from my rental bungalow. The windows were dark. A long camera lens caught the morning sun from behind the windshield.

The private investigator had finally earned his fee.

That evening at six, Viviana returned. Her face was dark. She dropped a thick, heavy cream envelope onto my kitchen counter.

"A courier delivered this to my firm an hour ago," Viviana said. Her voice was sharp as a blade. "Addressed to you, care of my office."

I looked down at the expensive paper. My name was written in Dean's familiar, slanted handwriting.

"I called him immediately," Viviana said, crossing her arms. "I told him if he pulls anything, I'll personally ensure the bar complaint lands on Malik Price's desk."

"What did he say?"

"He said it's your birthday tomorrow. He begged me to give it to you."

Tomorrow was my thirty-fifth birthday.

I picked up the envelope and slid a finger under the wax seal. Inside was a heavy cardstock invitation.

Dean had made a reservation at Canlis, the most famous fine-dining restaurant in Seattle. It sat high above the city, with floor-to-ceiling glass looking out over the dark, gleaming waters of Lake Union and Elliott Bay.

He hadn't just booked a table.

Dean had reserved the entire private outdoor terrace.

Viviana watched my eyes move across the lines. "I called a hostess I know there," she said, her lip curling. "He ordered low glass vases filled with white peonies. Dozens of them. Your favorites. He even tracked down a 2014 Napa Valley Cabernet. The exact bottle you two shared on your fifth anniversary."

"There's more," I murmured.

"Oh, there's plenty more," Viviana scoffed. "He hired a string quartet. He gave them a list of songs. The top one is that Norah Jones ballad. The one you danced to at your wedding reception."

I stared at the black ink on the cream paper.

A string quartet. Peonies. Napa wine.

For ten years, Dean had worked late on my birthday. He had sent generic floral arrangements through his secretary. He had bought me kitchen appliances and department store gift cards. He had looked past me at dinners, his thumbs twitching against his phone under the table.

Now that I was gone, his memory was suddenly perfect. He remembered every song, every flower, and every year we had spent together.

"It's a trap, Ariah," Viviana said quietly. "He thinks he can buy you back with expensive guilt."

I looked out the window. The rain had stopped. A cool mist hung over the damp pavement.

"I know," I said.

I set the card down beside my tea.

"Are you going?" Viviana asked.

I smoothed the front of my sweater. My left hip still carried the faint shadow of a yellowing bruise.

"Yes," I told her softly. "I'm going."