After My Husband Sent Me His Mistress’s Lingerie

My phone rang while I was making coffee.

Nathan.

I answered on the second ring. "Hey."

"Hey, you." His voice was warm and easy. It wrapped around me like a blanket. "I've got a free Saturday. There's a trail above the Hudson Valley. Long climb. Great view. Nobody around."

"Sounds like our kind of place."

"That's the idea." I could hear him smiling. "Check your phone."

My screen lit up with a new message.

A photo. Nathan, in a dim home gym, shirtless. Sweat on his chest. Abs like carved stone. His hair was wet, and he was grinning into the mirror like he knew exactly what he was doing.

Under it: *Getting in shape for our next adventure. You in?*

I laughed out loud. My cheeks went hot.

"Well?" he said. "Say something."

"I'm saying you're a menace."

"Is that a yes?"

"It's a yes."

I saved the photo. Of course I did.

Mocha was already at the door, tail wagging, leash in her mouth. I hung up, grabbed my keys, and left my phone face-up on the counter.

I didn't think about it.

That was my first mistake.

---

The park was quiet and cold. Mocha sniffed every tree like it owed her money. I walked slowly and let my head clear.

Forty minutes later, I opened the apartment door.

The first thing I heard was nothing.

Then I saw the bedroom.

My closet was gutted. Dresses on the floor. Shoes thrown against the wall. A vase lay shattered across the rug, water soaking into the carpet. Our wedding photo had been ripped off its nail. The frame was cracked. The glass was a spiderweb.

Roman stood in the middle of it all. His shirt was untucked. His chest rose and fell like he had run a mile.

He held up my phone.

"Who the *fuck* is this?"

Nathan's abs glowed on the screen.

Mocha pressed against my leg. I rested my hand on her head.

"You think you can whore around behind my back?" Roman shouted. Spit flew from his mouth. "In my house? On my money?"

I looked at the broken vase. The torn dresses. The wedding photo, face-down in the glass.

I didn't feel fear.

I felt tired.

"You sent me a sex tape on our anniversary, Roman," I said evenly.

"That's not—"

"You gave me your mistress's dirty lingerie. You put her on our couch, with her feet in your lap." I stepped over a heel. "And you're screaming at me over a shirtless photo from a friend?"

"A *friend*?" He laughed, high and ugly. "Don't insult me."

"Then don't act like I owe you anything."

He crossed the room in three strides. His fingers clamped around my wrist.

Hard.

Mocha growled.

I didn't scream. I didn't pull right away. I looked at his hand, then up at his face.

"Let go," I said quietly.

"Or what?"

I held his eyes. I didn't blink. I let the silence stretch until it was thick enough to choke on.

Something flickered across his face. Doubt, maybe.

His grip loosened.

I twisted my wrist free. A red mark was already blooming. I'd photograph it later. Date, time, angle.

Roman looked away first.

I stepped over the broken glass, walked out of the bedroom, and didn't say another word.

Behind me, he stood in the wreckage of his own tantrum.

---

The next afternoon, he called me into his study.

He sat behind the big mahogany desk, hands folded, like a judge. The room smelled like leather and cologne. A single sheet of paper waited in the middle of the desk.

"Sit."

I stayed standing.

He shrugged, like he'd expected that. "Fine. Here's how this goes."

He slid the paper toward me with two fingers.

"A voluntary departure agreement. You leave this apartment by Friday. No settlement. No access to the joint accounts. No negotiation."

He leaned back. His chair creaked. He looked so pleased with himself.

"You have no career," he said. "No savings. No leverage. Walk out quietly, or I'll make sure everyone in this city knows you're an ungrateful, cheating wife who doesn't deserve a cent."

I picked up the paper.

I read it. Slowly. Every clause. Every line.

Roman watched me, a faint smile on his lips. He thought I was reading my own funeral.

I turned the last page. Set it down. Picked it up again.

Then I tore it in half.

The sound was loud in the quiet room. Clean and final.

I tore it again. Dropped the pieces on his desk.

Roman's eyes widened. His smile slid off.

"You really shouldn't have done that," he said.

I almost felt sorry for him.

"No, Roman." My voice was soft. Gentle, even.

"*You* shouldn't have."