My Husband Let His Mistress Destroy My Reputation

The tiny crystals sparkled under my fingertips as I carefully positioned another rhinestone onto the toe of Paxton's custom ballroom shoe. My fingers ached from hours of this delicate work, but I pushed through the discomfort. These shoes would be perfect for his upcoming competition—a surprise I'd been working on for weeks.

"Just a few more rows," I whispered to myself, ignoring the cramping in my fingers.

The afternoon light streaming through our small apartment window was fading as I bent closer to my work. The black leather shoes gleamed with the pattern I'd designed—elegant swirls that would catch the light as he danced across the floor.

"Almost done," I murmured, reaching for another crystal.

The apartment door swung open, and Paxton strode in, his dance bag slung over one shoulder. His eyes swept over me hunched on the floor, surrounded by scattered rhinestones and tools.

"What are you doing?" he asked, barely glancing at my work as he headed toward the bedroom.

"Finishing your competition shoes," I replied, holding up one shoe. "I've been working on them all afternoon."

He paused, taking the shoe from my hand. I watched his face, waiting for appreciation or excitement, but his expression remained flat.

"These are... tacky, Ashlyn." He dropped the shoe back into my lap. "Professional dancers don't wear homemade shoes with rhinestones. It looks amateur."

My stomach tightened. "I thought you'd like them. I spent weeks designing the pattern."

"I need to change," he said, disappearing into the bedroom without another word about my hours of work. "Where's my performance shirt? The one I asked you to iron?"

"It's hanging in the closet," I called back, carefully placing the shoe on the floor.

"Did you use the steam setting? It needs to be perfectly pressed." His voice drifted from the bedroom.

I flexed my cramped fingers, feeling a sharp pain shoot through them. "Yes, I used the steam setting."

"Because last time you ironed it, there were creases everywhere."

---

Le Bernardin's elegant interior gleamed with soft lighting and polished silverware. I'd chosen this restaurant carefully for Thanksgiving dinner—a place nice enough to impress my parents but not so expensive that it would break our budget.

"Table for four, please," I'd told the maître d' when I arrived twenty minutes early.

Now I sat alone at the table, watching other families enjoy their meals while my parents' concerned glances grew more frequent.

"He should be here any minute," I assured them, checking my phone again. No messages.

"He's probably just caught in traffic," Mom said, her smile tight as she adjusted her napkin. "New York traffic can be terrible."

Dad's eyes met mine across the table. "On Thanksgiving weekend?"

I swallowed hard. "He might have had a last-minute client. You know how dedicated he is to his students."

My mother reached across the table to squeeze my hand. "It's already been an hour, honey."

I nodded, fighting back tears. "I'm sure he'll be here soon."

Another thirty minutes passed. Dad signaled for more water while Mom excused herself to the restroom. I stared at my untouched glass, wondering if I should call Paxton again.

"He's probably just running late," I said to Dad, who was studying the wine list with unusual intensity.

"Ashlyn," he began gently, "has this happened before?"

Before I could answer, my phone buzzed. A text from Paxton: "Running late. Studio emergency. Start without me."

Two hours late, and that was all he could send?

---

The restaurant door finally burst open at 8:45 PM. Paxton rushed in, his hair disheveled and his usually impeccable appearance slightly rumpled.

"Sorry I'm late," he announced, sliding into the empty chair beside me. "There was an emergency at the studio. One of the mirrors broke during practice."

I noticed he didn't actually apologize to my parents, only offered an excuse.

"We were beginning to think you wouldn't make it," Dad said, his tone measured.

"Wouldn't miss it," Paxton replied, flashing his practiced smile. "I just need to use the restroom. Back in a flash."

As he stood, his phone lit up on the table. I glanced down automatically.

A text message from Eliana Woods:

"Thanks for the extra 'private' lesson today. You're wicked. ;)"

A heart emoji followed.

My blood turned to ice as I stared at the screen.

"Is that his phone?" Mom asked quietly.

I couldn't speak. Another notification appeared:

"Don't forget our special session tomorrow. Just you and me..."

The words blurred as tears filled my eyes. All those late nights at the studio, all those "emergency practices" and "private sessions."

"Ashlyn?" Dad's voice seemed distant. "What's wrong?"

I looked up at my father's concerned face, then back at the phone still lighting up with messages from Eliana.

Everything suddenly made sense—the late nights, the criticism, the dismissal of my efforts. The custom shoes I'd spent weeks perfecting, now sitting forgotten in our apartment.

Paxton had been emotionally cheating on me all along.