My Husband Chose His Mistress—Now He’s Begging Me to Come Back

*Smack!*

The slap snapped my head sideways. I stumbled back, and my hip slammed into the edge of the dining table. A water glass tipped over. My ears rang like someone had struck a bell inside my skull.

Nathan Verelli, my husband of three years, stood over me. A bank statement was crushed in his fist. His eyes were cold and flat as winter glass.

"Twenty thousand dollars is gone, Elena." He shook the paper at me. "You're the only one home all day. If you didn't take it, who did?"

I pressed my palm to my burning cheek. My fingers were shaking, so I curled them into my skin.

"Check my account." My voice wobbled. I steadied it. "Search my room. Search my purse. I never touched that money."

"Search your room?" He let out a short, ugly laugh. "So you can hide it somewhere else first?"

From the cream-colored sofa, my mother-in-law, Margaret Verelli, set her teacup down on its saucer. She did it slowly, like she had all the time in the world.

"Stop the performance, dear." She smoothed her pearl necklace. "Three years you've lived under our roof. Eaten our food. Spent our money. And now you're bold enough to steal it?"

I turned to face her. My cheek throbbed with every heartbeat.

"Three years," I repeated. "And every time your chest went tight at two in the morning, who drove you to the ER?"

Margaret's mouth pinched.

"Who knows you take your heart pill at eight and your blood thinner at nine?" I kept going. "Who books your checkups every third Thursday? Who reminds Nathan about his board meetings, picks up his suits, pays the electric bill, packs Leo's lunch for preschool?"

"That's called being a housewife." Margaret lifted her cup again and sipped. "You don't have a job, Elena. Of course you do chores. We're feeding you."

*Feeding me.*

I had given up a design position in Chicago to marry into this house. She knew that. She just didn't care.

A small creak came from the staircase.

My son, Leo, peeked around the banister. He was three, in his dinosaur pajamas, clutching his stuffed rabbit by one ear. His eyes were wide and scared.

"Leo, baby, go back up—"

"Grandma said Mommy is a thief," he whispered.

Something inside my chest tore open, quick and clean, like a needle punched straight through.

I didn't cry. I just stood there.

Margaret didn't even look embarrassed. She waved a hand at him. "Go upstairs, sweetheart. Grown-ups are talking."

Leo hesitated. Then he ran up the steps, his little feet thumping.

I swung back to Nathan. Some stupid part of me still hoped. I searched his face for anything—a flicker of doubt, a crack of the man who used to kiss my forehead before work.

"You think it was me too," I said quietly. "Don't you?"

He said nothing.

He reached into his briefcase, pulled out a folder, and tossed it on the floor. It landed by my bare feet with a flat slap.

"Repayment agreement," he said. "Sign it. Return the money, and I'll pretend this never happened."

I stared down at the papers. My name was already typed at the bottom. He'd had it drafted *before* he came home. Before he even asked me.

He'd never been asking.

"You had a lawyer write this," I said.

"I had a lawyer protect my family."

"I *am* your family."

Nathan loosened his tie and looked past me, at the wall. "Then act like it. Give the money back."

The ringing in my ears faded. In its place came a strange, quiet calm. I wasn't his partner. I never had been. I was staff who happened to share his bed.

I nodded once.

"Fine," I said. "If you've already decided I'm a thief, I won't explain anymore."

Margaret's eyebrows shot up. "That's it? No tears?"

"No," I said. "No tears."

I stepped over the folder and walked upstairs.

Our bedroom smelled like Nathan's cologne. I shut the door and sat on the edge of the bed. My hands had finally stopped trembling.

I unlocked my phone and opened my notes app.

It was all there. Three years of my life in neat little lists.

*Margaret — Lisinopril 8 a.m. Warfarin 9 a.m. NO grapefruit.*

*Nathan — dry cleaning Tues. Allergic to shellfish. Hates cilantro. Board meeting Fri 10 a.m.*

*Leo — preschool pickup 3:15. Peanut-free snacks. Pediatrician May 12.*

*Mortgage autopay 1st. Water bill 15th. Margaret's cardiologist, Dr. Fennimore, ext. 4402.*

I scrolled through them, one by one. Every reminder. Every allergy. Every quiet thing I did so this house wouldn't fall apart.

Then I pressed *delete.*

*Delete.*

*Delete.*

Each tap felt lighter than the last. By the end, I was almost smiling. That scared me a little.

The screen went blank. *No notes.*

I looked down at my left hand. The diamond Nathan had picked out—too big, too flashy, chosen to impress his business friends, not me—caught the lamplight.

I twisted it off. It stuck at the knuckle, then slid free.

I set it on the nightstand. It made a tiny *click* against the wood.

There. Done.

I pulled my old suitcase out of the closet and unzipped it. I was folding my first sweater when my phone buzzed on the bed.

A notification from the bank. Our joint account. I'd set up the alerts myself, back when I still thought we shared everything.

*Transaction completed: $20,000.00 transferred to account holder VICTORIA GRANT.*

I went very still.

Victoria Grant.

My sister-in-law. Married to Nathan's older brother. The woman who hugged me at Christmas and called me "sweetie." The woman whose car I'd seen parked down the street from Nathan's office one too many times. The woman Nathan swore was "just family."

The transfer had been sent from Nathan's login. Three days ago.

I let out a sound. It wasn't a sob. It was a laugh—short and dry and almost cheerful.

Downstairs, I heard Margaret's voice, sweet as syrup on the phone. "Yes, Victoria, darling. No, no, everything's handled."

I took a screenshot. Then another of the account details. Then I emailed both to myself, and to a second address Nathan didn't know existed.

My reflection stared back at me from the dark window. Red handprint on one cheek. Eyes I barely recognized.

Cold eyes.

"So that's it," I murmured to the empty room. "You were never looking for the truth. You just didn't want to see it."

Footsteps came up the stairs. Heavy. Nathan's.

The doorknob turned.