When My Husband Protected His Pregnant Mistress

Today was our third wedding anniversary.

I woke up early, bought a bouquet of white lilies, and slipped a handmade card into my coat pocket. Three years ago, I gave up my racing helmet and walked away from the track to become Cole Pierce’s wife. I used to love the roar of an engine. But Cole wanted a quiet home, so I gave it all up. I thought making myself small would keep him close.

Then his assistant called. Cole had been in a minor car accident and was resting at Cedars-Sinai.

I rushed there with the flowers, my heart pounding against my ribs. I hurried down the quiet hallway on the fourth floor and found Room 414.

The door was cracked open an inch.

I stopped.

Inside, Cole sat on the edge of the mattress. He wasn't alone. Jaycee Collins was curled in his arms, her face buried against his chest. Cole had his eyes half-closed. He was stroking her hair, whispering soft, soothing words into her ear. His broad shoulders were curved over her in total protection.

Then Jaycee moved. Her eyes fluttered open.

She looked straight past Cole’s shoulder, right at me through the gap in the door. She didn't look startled. Instead, the corners of her mouth curled up. A slow, triumphant smile spread across her face.

I pushed the door open.

The latch clicked loudly in the quiet room. Cole turned his head. His expression tightened, but he didn't jump or look guilty. He gently eased Jaycee back onto the pillows, pulled the white blanket over her legs, and stepped out into the hallway.

He clicked the door shut behind him.

"What are you doing here, Leia?" he asked. His voice was smooth and even.

"It’s our anniversary," I said. My fingers were shaking around the stems of the lilies. "And you’re holding another woman."

Cole rubbed his temple. He looked mildly annoyed. "Jaycee had a medical crisis. The doctors had to monitor her heart. You’re being irrational. Go home."

"Irrational?" The word burned in my throat.

"We’ll talk tonight," he said. He didn't even glance at the flowers in my hands. "Go home, Leia."

Something inside me cracked. It was a cold, sharp sensation. A tiny voice that I had suppressed for three years finally broke through.

I didn't yell. I turned on my heel, threw the lilies into the nearest trash bin, and walked away.

I didn't go home to wait like an obedient wife. Instead, I drove straight to our villa in Malibu.

I walked into Cole’s private study. The room smelled of cedar and expensive scotch. The bottom drawer of his mahogany desk was always locked. Whenever I had asked about it, he told me it only held boring company contracts.

I picked up a heavy bronze letter opener from his desk tray. I jammed the tip into the gap above the lock and threw my weight against it.

The wood splintered. The lock popped open with a crack.

Inside lay a black leather folder. I opened it, and the air left my lungs.

There were two marriage certificates.

The first one had my name on it. *Leia Sanders and Cole Pierce.* But when I looked closely at the state seal, it was just flat, cheap ink. The registration number was blank. It was completely fake. A prop.

Underneath it lay the second paper. It was a real California marriage certificate, stamped with a raised gold seal.

*Cole Pierce and Jaycee Collins.* Legally registered two years ago.

My hands went entirely numb.

I took both certificates down to the dining room and laid them side by side on the long dark table. Then I called Cole.

"Come home," I said. "Now."

He arrived forty minutes later. He loosened his silk tie as he walked through the foyer, looking ready to lecture me for calling him away. But then his eyes landed on the table.

He froze.

He didn't panic. He walked over slowly, looked down at the two pieces of paper, and let out a quiet sigh.

"You broke into my desk," he said flatly.

"We aren't married," I whispered. My throat felt like sandpaper. "I gave up my entire life for you, Cole. And I'm not even your wife."

"Listen to me," Cole said, his voice entirely calm. "You don't understand the situation. Jaycee is bound to a conquest system. It's an app that controls her vitals. If she didn't get legally married, her system would penalize her. She would have died, Leia."

I stared at him. The words sounded completely insane. "You married her because of an app?"

"I saved her life," he said firmly. "That’s all it was. It’s just paper. It doesn't change what we have."

He took a step toward me. His eyes dropped to my bare wrist. Cole suffered from a tactile disorder—his skin broke out in burning hives whenever another woman touched him. My touch was the only thing that gave him relief. He reached out to grab my hand, craving my skin like he always did.

"You know I love you," he murmured. His fingers brushed against my knuckles.

A wave of nausea hit me.

He didn't love me. He never loved me. He just owned me. I was his medicine, his comfort, and his convenience.

I pulled my hand back.

His fingers caught empty air. His jaw clenched in surprise.

I grabbed my coat from the back of the chair and turned toward the door.

"Leia, stop," Cole commanded. His voice went cold and sharp. "Don't be childish."

I didn't stop. I walked straight out into the damp ocean air.

Behind me, Cole didn't take a single step to chase after me. Instead, the loud ringtone of his phone cut through the foyer.

I glanced back once through the glass. The screen on the dining table was flashing bright.

The caller ID said *Jaycee*.

***

That night, rain drummed against the window of a cheap hotel room downtown.

I sat on the edge of the bed. The forged marriage certificate was resting on my lap.

In the dark room, three years played back in my head. Every late night Cole spent at the office. Every canceled dinner. Every time he rushed out because Jaycee had an "emergency." Every time he told me I was too jealous, too sensitive, too demanding.

And every single time, I had apologized to him.

I unlocked my phone and went to my photo gallery. There were two hundred and forty-three pictures of Cole and me.

I swiped through them one by one. Charity galas. Beach trips. Dinners on our balcony.

I looked closely at my own face in every single shot.

My smile was always tight. My shoulders were always tense. I had erased my career, my friends, and my fire just to stand behind him. And in not one of those two hundred and forty-three photos did I look truly happy.

I turned the phone face down on the nightstand.

I closed my eyes for exactly three seconds.

I took one deep, clean breath.

When I opened my eyes, the tears were gone. My heart felt cold and dead.

It was time to make a plan.