While I Was Dying, My Husband Chose His Mistress

The chemo drug was cold. It always made my veins feel like ice water.

I leaned my head back against the vinyl chair. The IV pole hummed beside me, dropping poison into my arm drop by drop.

I closed my eyes. I didn't want to think, but the memories came anyway. They always came when I was too weak to fight them off.

I remembered Lincoln Center three years ago.

I had spent two years preparing for that solo debut. Six hours at the Steinway every day. My fingers bled, but I didn't care. It was supposed to be my moment.

Then Rhett started having private dinners with the committee.

He smiled. He shook hands. He wrote checks using money that belonged to my family.

"Lori is under too much stress," Rhett told our friends, his voice dripping with false concern. "She needs a break. Her health comes first."

I didn't need a break. I was fine. But within a month, the committee replaced me. They gave my recital to Milani Fisher.

A few weeks later, Milani walked onto the stage at Carnegie Hall. She played my exact program. Ravel. The piece my mother had loved most.

The crowd gave her a standing ovation.

I sat alone in the dark living room of our penthouse, listening to the broadcast over the radio. I held my left hand in my lap. My ring finger was bent sideways, frozen at an ugly angle. The nerve was dead. It would never reach across an octave again.

A sharp cramp gripped my stomach. The pain pulled me deeper into the dark, straight to the worst memory of all.

Rain on the FDR Drive.

The windshield wipers slapped back and forth. My mother sat in the driver's seat beside me. She was laughing, talking about baby names.

Then, blinding headlights cut through the storm.

Rhett’s silver Porsche blew right through the red light. Milani was behind the wheel, speeding.

Metal crushed metal. Glass exploded like hail. The world spun upside down and slammed into concrete.

Then, dead silence.

"Mom?" I whispered.

I reached out. My mother’s hand was warm at first. Then her fingers slipped from mine, going completely slack.

A warm, wet ache spread between my thighs. I looked down. Blood was soaking through my jeans, dark and heavy.

I didn't understand it until I woke up in the hospital. The room was stark white.

"I'm so sorry, Mrs. Williamson," the doctor said softly. "The baby didn't make it."

Four months. I had carried a secret life inside me for four months. I had planned to tell Rhett that very night over dinner.

When Rhett finally called, he wasn't at the hospital. He was in his office.

"Lori, stop being so dramatic," his voice crackled through the phone. He sounded irritated, like I had interrupted an important meeting. "It was an accident. Milani is terrified. The police are taking care of it. Just go home and rest."

He didn't ask if I was hurting. He didn't ask why I was crying.

He never knew about the child.

I never told him.

The chemo machine beeped three times, snapping me back to reality. The nurse came in, unhooked the empty bag, and gave me a sympathetic smile. I gathered my coat and walked out into the cold autumn evening.

Two nights later, Dallas attended a private investors' dinner at the Union Club.

I didn't go inside. My fever was too high, and my body was too sore from the treatment. But Dallas had me wait in the warmth of his town car parked across the street. When he came down an hour later, he got into the back seat beside me.

He smelled of cold night air and rain.

"Rhett was there," Dallas said quietly.

I turned to look at him. "Did he say anything?"

"He tried," Dallas replied.

Rhett had worked the room with a glass of whiskey in his hand. He never actually drank it. He just used the glass as a prop so his hands wouldn't look empty. He had spotted Dallas by the bar and walked straight over.

Rhett had smiled that smug, untouchable smile. "Some people never know when to let go," Rhett said, loud enough for two board members to hear.

Dallas didn't raise his voice. He didn't cause a scene.

He just set his glass down on the nearest table. He stepped in close, leaning toward Rhett’s ear until only Rhett could hear him.

"You should be more careful with things that don't belong to you, Rhett," Dallas had whispered. "Borrowed things have a way of being recalled."

Rhett had frozen on the spot.

The smirk vanished from his face. His jaw locked tight. Then, his left hand twitched.

Instinct took over. Rhett reached down and pinched his left cufflink, twisting the metal square between his thumb and forefinger.

It was his tell. The boy from Brownsville terrified someone would see he didn't belong.

Dallas had looked down at Rhett's shaking fingers, noted the gesture, and walked away.

In the dark of the car, Dallas looked at me. His eyes were steady and calm.

"The trap is almost set, Lori," Dallas said softly. He reached out and wrapped his warm hand around my cold fingers. "He's running out of time."