While I Was Dying, My Husband Chose His Mistress

Two weeks after the rooftop, Manhattan held its annual autumn charity auction at The Metropolitan Museum of Art.

I went because of my mother.

Her name was carved in gold lettering on the benefactor wall in the Great Hall. *Adriana Williamson.* I could not let an empty seat represent her memory.

I wore a high-necked black velvet gown with long sleeves. It was heavy enough to conceal the fifteen pounds I had lost, and the fabric didn’t cling to my ribs. A makeup artist had spent an hour buffing peach tones into my cheeks to hide the dull, gray cast of chemotherapy. In the mirror, I looked almost alive. Almost.

I arrived alone.

The Great Hall buzzed with old money and expensive perfume. Crystal chandeliers cast warm light over hundreds of guests in black tie. I took my seat at a table near the back row.

Dallas sat at an adjacent table ten feet away. He wore a crisp black tuxedo. His shoulders were broad, his posture relaxed. When my eyes found his, he gave me a barely perceptible nod. He didn't come over. He didn't draw eyes toward me. He just watched, steady and silent, the way he had watched over me for years.

Then Rhett walked in.

He didn’t look my way. Milani was on his arm, draped in a strapless emerald gown that showed off her pale collarbones. She laughed softly, leaning into his side. Rhett had bought a table in the front row, dead center. Power was something he wore like a tailored suit.

Halfway through the evening, the auctioneer cleared his throat. The massive digital screens flickered to the next lot.

"Lot fourteen," the auctioneer announced. "An exquisite estate piece. South Sea pearls with a three-carat teardrop diamond clasp."

My breath stopped in my throat.

The image on the screen was burned into my mind. It was my mother’s favorite necklace. She had worn it to every premiere, every holiday dinner, every milestone of my childhood. Three months ago, I had quietly sold it to an anonymous private dealer. The money went directly into a medical escrow account to cover the cost of my experimental chemotherapy. I hadn't had a choice.

Now, here it was.

"We'll open the bidding at two hundred thousand dollars," the auctioneer said.

A few paddles went up.

"Three hundred thousand," someone called out.

Rhett raised his paddle without looking around. "Eight hundred thousand."

Murmurs rippled through the hall. Heads turned toward the front table.

An art collector across the room raised a hand. "Nine hundred."

Rhett didn't even blink. He raised his paddle again. "One point two million."

Silence dropped over the room. No one challenged him. The auctioneer raised his wooden gavel. "Going once. Going twice. Sold to Mr. Rhett Taylor for one point two million dollars."

Applause scattered across the tables.

Rhett didn't stay seated. He stood up. An auction assistant quickly carried the black velvet box to him. Rhett opened it, lifting the heavy strand of pearls into the chandelier light.

He didn't put it in his pocket. He turned to Milani.

With deliberate, theatrical grace, Rhett swept Milani’s dark hair over one shoulder. He leaned down and fastened my mother’s necklace around her bare neck. The diamond rested right in the hollow of Milani's throat. Milani gasped, her face lighting up with triumph. She reached up, running her manicured fingers over the pearls, and kissed Rhett on the cheek.

Then Rhett turned his eyes on me.

He didn't rush. He walked slowly down the center aisle, nodding to business acquaintances, until he stopped right beside my table.

The air turned thin. Under the tablecloth, I pressed my scarred left hand hard against my thigh, feeling the stiff, crooked ring finger bite into my muscle.

Rhett leaned down. His cologne washed over me—bergamot and cedar. The same scent that used to mean safety when I was twenty-three.

"You want it back, Lori?" he murmured. His voice was smooth, quiet, and completely devoid of warmth.

I looked straight ahead, not meeting his gaze.

"All you have to do is get on your knees," Rhett whispered near my ear. "Ask Milani nicely. Tell her you’re sorry for being difficult. If she feels generous, maybe she’ll let you wear it sometime."

He straightened up. A faint, cruel smirk touched the corner of his lips. Then he walked away, returning to his table like a conqueror.

My mother always told me that public heartbreak was vulgar. A Williamson never gave the room a show.

I picked up my water glass with a steady hand. I took a slow sip. My throat felt dry as sand. Then I set the glass back down. It made a tiny, muffled *clink* against the white linen.

I stood up. I smoothed the velvet of my skirt, kept my chin high, and walked toward the exit. I didn't rush. I didn't look back.

I made it past the velvet ropes. I made it down the grand stone staircase.

The moment I stepped into the dim, quiet vestibule by the coat check, the adrenaline drained out of me. A brutal cramp ripped through my stomach, hot and sharp, like a serrated blade twisting inside my guts. My vision blurred around the edges. Black spots danced across the marble tiles.

My knees folded beneath me.

I didn't hit the floor.

Strong arms caught me before I could fall. Dallas pulled me back against his chest. His hands were firm, gripping my shoulders to keep me upright. Without a single word, he swept his wool overcoat around my shivering body.

"I've got you," he whispered. His voice was low and calm.

He didn't ask what Rhett had said. He didn't ask why I was trembling.

Dallas supported my weight with one arm around my waist, walking me out through the side entrance into the cool night air. His black sedan was waiting at the curb with the back door open.

He helped me into the leather seat and shut the door behind us. The car pulled away into the Manhattan traffic.

Outside the tinted window, city lights blurred into streaks of yellow and red. I leaned my head against the cold glass.

Dallas sat beside me in the quiet dark. He didn't ask a single question. He just reached out, took my icy right hand into his warm palm, and held it tight.