The Passenger Seat He Saved for His Mistress

Four years together, and I always sat in the back seat of Victor Delgado's car.

He said the passenger seat was the most dangerous spot, that he couldn't bear to put me at risk.

It moved me so much I praised him to everyone I met for being so thoughtful.

Until today, when I borrowed his car to get to the airport and opened the glovebox looking for tissues.

It was stuffed with women's hydrating mist, period-cramp patches, even a pair of lace underwear still in its packaging.

On the dashcam, his voice went soft and doting as he spoke to his female assistant:

"Silly girl, of course the passenger seat is yours and only yours."

"Putting her in the back makes it easy for me to keep them straight, who's an outsider and who's family."

I swallowed my disgust and wrapped that underwear in the prettiest gift box I could find.

I mailed it anonymously to the company front desk. Recipient: all coworkers.

……

The box was opened at the front desk right at the peak of the lunch crowd.

The young admin girl chirped, "Director Delgado, there's a gift box for you! It's gorgeous!"

Thinking it was an expensive present from a client, she slit the packaging open right in front of everyone, all curiosity.

A pair of sexy black lace underwear slid off the velvet lining.

It hit the polished marble counter with a small slap.

The air froze in an instant.

On the card tucked inside, one line of printed text was both glaring and mocking:

"Lost and found. Director Delgado's thoughtful pick."

The crowd went dead silent for a few seconds, then broke into a smothered buzz of talk.

"God, isn't that the same brand of bag from Director Delgado's car?"

"Isn't his girlfriend Edith Henson from strategy? Whose underwear is this?"

"Who else? That new little assistant. She's in Director Delgado's passenger seat every single day."

I stood at the very edge of the crowd, my heart squeezed by an invisible hand, cold and aching.

In the crowd, Marion Fox, the new assistant, went white in a flash.

The coffee cup in her hand jolted.

The scalding liquid spilled across her pure white dress, blooming into an ugly yellow stain.

She didn't care about the burn, didn't care how she looked.

The first thing she did was turn to Victor Delgado, who'd come out of his office at the noise, her eyes begging him to save her.

His face was livid as he strode over fast.

He swept the underwear and the lid back into the box and slammed it shut.

There wasn't a moment's hesitation in the movement.

But his gaze cut through the crowd like a blade and fixed on me with perfect aim.

There was no guilt in that look, no explanation.

Only cold scrutiny and contempt.

As if I were the shameless one who deserved to be nailed to the pillory.

He grabbed my wrist, gripping so hard he nearly crushed the bone.

"Come with me!"

He hauled me roughly into the empty fire stairwell.

The door banged shut, cutting off every pair of eyes.

He shoved me hard against the wall, and my back slammed into it, the pain sharp.

He was holding down his fury, forcing the words out through his teeth. "Edith Henson, are you done causing a scene?"

"Over one pair of underwear, you've humiliated me completely!"

I looked up at him. This face I'd known for four years was terrifyingly unfamiliar now.

"The things in the glovebox, whose are they?" I asked, my voice gone hoarse.

He was silent for two seconds, then gave a cold laugh and threw the question back at me.

His tone carried open, undisguised irritation:

"You went through my things? Edith Henson, when did you get so badly raised?"

For the first time, I realized he couldn't even be bothered to spin a decent lie.

He just wanted to pin the blame on me fast, to end this farce that was costing him face.

Just then the stairwell door pushed open, and Marion Fox came chasing after us, her eyes rimmed red.