After My Husband Let His Mistress Break My Prosthetic

The boardroom was my room once. I knew every scratch in the mahogany, every way the afternoon light bent around the windows. For five years, I'd sat at that table and made Harper Enterprises grow while Cal was gone. Now I stood in the doorway on my temporary prosthetic, watching Cal sit in his chair like he'd never left it, and Wynter sit in mine like she'd always belonged there.

Cal didn't look up when I entered. He was reading something on his tablet, his fingers scrolling with the same decisive movements I remembered from our life before. The life he didn't remember living.

'Claire.' He said my name like it was an appointment he was late for. 'Have a seat.'

I lowered myself carefully into one of the visitor chairs. The prosthetic felt foreign, unbalanced. A temporary model, the doctor had called it. As if my body was also temporary.

Wynter turned her folder toward her, fingers tracing the edges. She wore a cream silk blouse that made her look delicate, breakable. The kind of woman men wanted to protect. I'd worn power suits to this room for five years. I'd been the protector then.

'As you know,' Cal said, his voice flat and efficient, 'we've been reevaluating the company's structure since the... incident.'

The incident. Not the bombing. Not the explosion that took my leg. The incident, like it was a minor scheduling conflict.

'Your management role,' he continued, 'has been reassigned.'

He didn't say to whom. He didn't need to. Wynter's fingers continued their dance along the folder's edge, not quite smiling.

'I see,' I said. My voice sounded normal. I was proud of that too.

Cal slid a stack of papers across the polished wood. They came to rest halfway between us, like a dead thing.

'Divorce papers,' he said. 'Already signed. My signature is from two years ago, before I...' He gestured vaguely at his head. 'Before everything. All you need to do is sign.'

I picked up the papers. The signature was perfect. A flawless forgery. I'd seen his signature every day for seven years. I knew the way he pressed harder on the 'C,' the slight hook on the 'r.' This was someone else's approximation.

'You expect me to believe you signed these two years ago?' I asked quietly.

His jaw tightened. 'The lawyers confirmed it.'

'Which lawyers?'

'Claire.' He used my name like a warning. 'This isn't a negotiation.'

I looked at Wynter. She was studying her nails, the picture of patience. Of victory.

I stood, gripping the back of the chair. The prosthetic shifted, unsteady. I righted myself without asking for help.

'I'll review these with my own counsel,' I said.

'Of course.' Cal's tone suggested my caution was pathetic. 'Take your time.'

I walked out on my temporary leg, each step measured and deliberate. Behind me, I heard Wynter's soft intake of breath. A small, private sound of triumph.

The penthouse felt different when I returned. Smaller. Colder. I stood in the entryway, keys in hand, and listened to the sounds of someone else making themselves at home.

Wynter appeared from the bedroom, a stack of my books in her arms. She'd changed into soft linen pants and a loose sweater. Her hair was down. She looked like she belonged here.

'Oh, Claire.' Her voice carried the perfect note of theatrical sympathy. 'You look exhausted. Please, take your time with your things.'

I followed her into the bedroom. My clothes had been pushed to one side of the closet, my shoes arranged haphazardly. Her pale fabrics already hung where my suits had been. My books were stacked in the corner, waiting to be boxed.

'Cal thought it would be easier,' she said, picking up one of my framed photographs and turning it face-down on the dresser, 'if I took the master. You understand.'

I said nothing. I gathered my things and carried them to the guest room. My new home.

That night, I heard her voice from the study. Low, pleased, conspiratorial.

'It's working, Daddy,' she said into what must have been a burner phone. 'She doesn't even fight. You should see her leg, the way she limps around like some broken thing. Cal can't even look at it.' She laughed. 'It's almost too easy.'

I pressed my thumb into my wrist and counted the seconds until her voice stopped. Then I closed my eyes and tried to remember what it felt like to have two legs. To have a husband who looked at me. To have a life that was mine.