After His Mistress Made Me Infertile, He Defended Her

I wore the dress from our first anniversary. Navy silk. It still fit. I'd kept it in the back of the closet wrapped in tissue paper for three years.

Maxwell noticed when I came out of the bedroom. His eyes moved over me and something softened in his face. "You look beautiful," he said.

I almost believed him.

The restaurant was the same one he'd chosen three years ago. Le Bernardin. White tablecloths. Soft lighting. A corner table overlooking Central Park. The sommelier remembered us. He smiled when he poured the champagne.

"To us," Maxwell said. He raised his glass.

I touched mine to his. The crystal made a clean sound.

For the first time in months, I felt something close to hope. Maybe the last three days had been enough. Maybe Fallon moving out had cleared the air. Maybe we could finally—

Maxwell's phone buzzed on the table.

He glanced at it. Just a glance. But I saw the micro-flinch. The one I'd learned to dread.

He picked up the phone. His thumb moved across the screen. His jaw tightened.

"What is it?" I asked.

He didn't answer right away. His eyes were still on the screen.

"Maxwell."

He looked up. "It's Fallon. Her pipes burst. The whole apartment's flooding."

I set down my glass. "Call a plumber."

"She doesn't know how to—" He stopped. Rubbed his face. "She's freaking out, Serenity. She doesn't know what to do."

"She's twenty-eight years old."

"I know, but—" He was already standing. Already reaching for his coat on the back of his chair. "I'll be back in an hour. I just need to make sure she's okay."

He leaned down and pressed a kiss to my forehead. His lips were warm. His cologne smelled like cedar.

"Order for both of us," he said. "I'll be right back."

Then he was gone.

I sat at the table. The champagne bubbles rose and popped. The sommelier came by and asked if I was ready to order. I told him we needed a few more minutes.

Ten minutes passed. Twenty. Thirty.

I texted Maxwell. *How's it going?*

No response.

The couple at the next table got their appetizers. The woman laughed at something the man said. He reached across the table and took her hand.

I checked my phone again. Nothing.

The sommelier returned. His smile was thinner now. "Would you like to order, ma'am?"

"Not yet," I said. "He'll be here soon."

But I didn't believe it.

An hour passed. The champagne went flat. The candle burned low. The waitstaff started avoiding my eyes when they walked by.

I called Maxwell. It rang four times and went to voicemail.

I tried again. Same thing.

The couple at the next table paid their bill and left. Another couple took their place. They ordered wine. They fed each other bites of scallops.

I sat alone at a table set for two.

At nine-thirty, I signaled the waiter. He came over quickly. Relieved, maybe.

"Just the champagne," I said.

He nodded. He didn't ask about the empty chair.

I paid the bill with the credit card Maxwell had given me for our anniversary last year. The one with both our names on it. I left a thirty percent tip because I didn't want the waiter to remember me as the woman who got stood up on her anniversary.

I took a cab home. The driver didn't try to make conversation. I watched the city lights blur past the window.

The penthouse was dark when I got back. I didn't turn on the lights. I walked to the bedroom and took off the navy silk dress. Hung it back in the closet. Wrapped it in tissue paper.

I put on one of Maxwell's old t-shirts and got into bed.

I didn't cry. I just lay there in the dark with my eyes open.

Maxwell came home at six in the morning. I heard the front door open. Heard his keys hit the table in the foyer. Heard his footsteps in the hallway.

He came into the bedroom. I didn't move. I kept my eyes closed.

He got into bed beside me. The mattress shifted. He smelled like coffee and something else. Perfume, maybe. Not mine.

I waited until I heard his breathing slow. Then I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling.

When I came out of the bedroom three hours later, Maxwell was in the kitchen. He had a bouquet of white roses on the counter. Expensive ones. The kind that came from the florist on Madison Avenue.

He turned when he heard me. His face was tired. Guilty.

"I'm sorry," he said. "Last night got out of hand. Fallon was in a bad state. I couldn't leave her alone."

I poured myself coffee. Black. No sugar.

"You could have called," I said.

He ran his hand through his hair. "My phone died."

"You were gone for nine hours."

"I know. I know. But she was—" He stopped. Looked at me. "You know how fragile she is, Serenity. I couldn't just walk out."

I took a sip of coffee. It burned my tongue.

"It was our anniversary," I said quietly.

"I know." His voice had an edge now. Defensive. "And I feel terrible. But you're being unreasonable. You know what she's been through. You know what she's dealing with. I thought you'd understand."

I looked at him. At the man who'd knelt beside my hospital bed ten years ago and promised to spend the rest of his life making it up to me.

"I do understand," I said.

I took my coffee to the window. The street below was full of people going to work. Living their lives. Moving forward.

I pressed my thumb against the scar on my right hand. The place where my ring finger used to be.

Maxwell came up behind me. He put his hand on my shoulder.

"I'll make it up to you," he said. "I promise."

I didn't turn around.

"Okay," I said.

But I didn't believe him anymore.