Her Initials on His Mistress's Wrist

On our tenth wedding anniversary, I saw an automatically synced email receipt on Garrett's iPad.

It didn't belong to me.

It was from a high-end bespoke gallery in Chicago, commissioned for a two-person portrait.

I called my husband, Garrett Sterling.

"Have you commissioned any art recently?"

There was a brief silence on the other end, then he chuckled, his voice effortlessly smooth, betraying nothing. "Oh, that. I was commissioning a gift for my business partner, Brooke. A housewarming present, he explained, for her new estate in the Hamptons."

Brooke was a fiercely private woman. She would never commission a portrait for public display.

More importantly, the sketch attached to the receipt showed a woman with waist-length hair. My hair has always been a chic, short bob.

I ended the call without another word.

Then, I headed straight for the address in the email.

Through the floor-to-ceiling window, I saw a young woman with waist-length hair holding Garrett's arm, her body pressed intimately against his. He’d complained countless times that my short hair wasn't feminine enough—that I was all business, no soul.

Apparently, the long-haired woman was his type.

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1

As the woman drifted toward a showroom, I fell into step behind her.

I steadied my breath and approached her, affecting the air of a potential client.

It was her.

Our eyes met in the reflection of a framed painting. I saw a flash of smug triumph in her eyes before her posture straightened almost instinctively.

Just as she was about to turn away, I stopped her with a smile. "You have such incredible taste. Do you work here?"

Her body tensed for a split second before she visibly relaxed, her voice laced with a smug little boast. "No, my boyfriend planned a surprise for our anniversary. He booked the entire showroom just for me."

A bitter laugh caught in my throat. One simple question and she was already this brazen. Who gave her the audacity to play the socialite on my dime?

I glanced at her ensemble—a Chanel suit from the latest collection, paired with ill-fitting heels. I asked nonchalantly, "No need to be nervous. I just think you have a real artist's eye. Could you give me some recommendations?"

The smugness on her face deepened. She lifted her chin slightly. "He picked this out for me. He said my gentle temperament is perfect for these kinds of things."

She paused, her gaze sweeping over my tailored business suit. "Your style is a little severe. A piece like this wouldn't suit you; it would just clash."

Excellent.

Even while playing the sweet, innocent ingénue, she couldn’t resist taking a jab at me, all while flaunting her youth and supposed artistic flair. Still trying to be provocative.

But her petty digs didn't faze me.

I extended a hand, pointing to the conspicuous leather-strap watch on her wrist.

"How long have you had this watch?"

Her reaction was immediate—a sharp recoil as she instinctively yanked her cuff over the timepiece.

"About… three years. It’s a vintage piece, very hard to find."

Her answer landed like a punch to the gut.

Three years ago marked the turning point in my career. My boutique coffee brand, Aura Coffee, had just broken into the North American market. I was constantly flying between the coffee-growing regions of South America and our headquarters in Chicago.

My life back then felt like an endless string of business trips.

But whenever we managed to be in the same city, my husband, Garrett, would meticulously plan romantic dates for us, leaving me feeling both cherished and guilty.

I once asked him if he resented me for prioritizing my career.

He had replied, his voice thick with affection, "You go build your empire, Camila. I'll always be right here, cheering you on. Your success is my greatest pride."

I knew the immense difficulty of balancing a career and a family, and I’d always carried a weight of guilt, even considering dipping into my family trust to help his company through a cash-flow crunch.

In that moment, however, I finally understood. All my guilt had been a joke. He hadn't sacrificed a thing. He'd simply found his own entertainment while I was busy building my "empire."

I took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of my nose to mask the wave of revulsion that washed over me.

I looked at the watch on her wrist with an expression of feigned surprise.

A humorless laugh escaped my lips. "You have a sharp eye. That's a limited-edition Patek Philippe from the 1930s, isn't it? It's practically a ghost on the auction market."

I knew that watch intimately. It was a coming-of-age gift from my father, one of the brand’s few vintage masterpieces, with my initials—C.M.—engraved on the case back.

It was also the lucky charm I wore when I won the World Barista Championship.

It had vanished when we moved into our Gold Coast apartment, and I had been heartbroken for months over its loss.