After He Saved His Mistress Instead of Me

On the night of our eighth anniversary, I wore the blue dress from our first date. It hung a little loose now. I told myself that was from work stress.

I lit the candles. I set out the garlic steak and the truffle potatoes, Camden's favorite. Outside our window, Manhattan glittered across the East River. Ten years ago, I'd arrived in this city as Autumn Matthews, a girl with a very common last name. I never told Camden that name was on half the buildings in Midtown. I wanted to be loved for me. So I paid his early rent in secret and called it "savings." I kept quiet.

My phone lit up on the table. The lock screen showed us laughing on a beach, his arm around my neck. I stared at it. Then I checked the time.

7:40. Then 8:15. Then 8:50.

Tonight might be the night, I thought. Eight years. Surely he would finally ask. My heart kept skipping like a scratched record.

The door opened at 9:20.

Camden walked in first, in a charcoal suit, his hair perfectly messy. Behind him came Scarlet Wilson, his secretary. I knew her from the office Christmas party. She held his arm with both hands, like a vine around a post. Her perfume hit me before she did. It was thick and sweet, and it made my eyes water.

"You're still up," Camden said.

"It's our anniversary." My voice came out thin. "I made dinner."

He sighed and rubbed his neck. "Autumn. Sit down. I need to tell you something."

I didn't sit. "Why is she here?"

"Scarlet is pregnant." He said it flatly, like reading a weather report. "It's mine."

The candle flames blurred. Scarlet laid a manicured hand on her flat stomach and looked at the floor. "I didn't mean for it to happen this way," she whispered.

I waited for Camden to say sorry. He checked his watch.

The steak went cold between us.

Then Scarlet brightened, a child with a surprise. "Oh! I brought you a gift." She pulled a glass dish from her bag and lifted the lid. Shrimp. Pink and glossy, swimming in garlic butter. "I made it myself. To say sorry."

My skin went cold. "I'm allergic to shellfish."

"Oh no." Her eyes went round. "I didn't know."

She knew. I'd seen her read the allergy note pinned in the office kitchen. But the smell was already in my nose, and my lips began to tingle. Within minutes my throat felt stuffed with wet cotton.

I grabbed the kitchen counter. The granite bit into my palms. I tried to say his name and only a wheeze came out.

Camden glanced over. "Don't do this," he muttered. "You're being dramatic."

"Camden." I couldn't breathe. "Please."

Scarlet tugged his sleeve and started whimpering. "I feel dizzy. All this stress, it's bad for the baby."

He turned to her at once, his voice soft in a way I hadn't heard in a year. "Okay. Okay, let's go."

They left. The door clicked shut. Nobody looked back.

My knees hit the tile. I crawled to my purse, my vision going gray at the edges, and found the EpiPen. I jammed it into my thigh. The pain was sharp and almost welcome. Then I dialed 911 with shaking fingers and whispered my address to a stranger.

The hospital lights hummed above me. An IV dripped into my arm, one clear bead after another. My throat felt scraped raw.

Camden showed up near midnight. He stood at the foot of the bed with his hands in his pockets. He didn't sit.

"Scarlet said it would look bad if I stayed away," he said.

I almost laughed. "That's why you came."

"Don't start." He checked his watch. "The doctor says you're fine."

"You walked out while I was dying."

"You had your pen. You're alive." He looked at his watch again. "I don't have time for this."

"Camden, I thought tonight you were going to..."

His phone buzzed. He read the screen, and his face changed. "The baby is kicking," he said. He was already standing. "I have to go."

He left mid-sentence. His footsteps echoed down the hall, then faded. I watched the ceiling tiles until the silence closed in.

Then I picked up my phone. The couple photo smiled at me, sun-warmed and stupid. I changed it to a cold gray cityscape, all steel and fog. My thumb hovered over the passcode screen. It was still our anniversary date.

I kept it. Let it hurt every time. Let it remind me never to be this foolish again.

Three days later, I walked into Maison Belle on Fifth Avenue. My neck was still bruised and my body felt hollow. The wedding dress I'd commissioned months ago was ready. Every crystal on it was hand-sewn. One for the rainy day we met. One for our first apartment. One for the night his company signed its first client.

The saleswoman wouldn't meet my eyes. She pointed toward the fitting room.

Scarlet stood on the platform in my dress.

It was too tight across her chest. She twirled anyway, and the crystals scattered light across the mirrors. Camden leaned on a pillar nearby, arms crossed, watching her.

"That's mine," I said.

He didn't even flinch. "Scarlet needs it more right now. She's showing soon."

"I designed it. I paid for it."

"It's just a dress, Autumn."

Scarlet looked at me over her shoulder. Her smile was small and sharp. She dragged her fingertips slowly across the crystals, one by one, like counting coins.

I stood there and watched ten years of my life walk out the door on another woman's body.

Something inside me finally broke. It didn't tear. It snapped cleanly, like a bone that had been bent too long.

And strangely, it stopped hurting.