His Mistress Killed Our Baby

The Plaza ballroom glittered like something out of a dream I'd stopped having years ago. Crystal chandeliers threw fractured light across marble floors. Women in gowns that cost more than cars moved through the crowd like jeweled fish. I sat at our table — mine and Lennox's — and watched my husband walk away.

He'd been gone for twenty minutes.

I tilted my head slightly to the right, the way I always did now, trying to catch the conversation at the next table over. Something about a merger. Something about the Hamptons. The words blurred together into the same expensive noise that filled every event like this.

Across the ballroom, I could see them. Lennox stood close to Jolene Morales, his hand resting on her elbow. She was laughing, head thrown back, dark hair cascading over bare shoulders. Her dress was red. It had been white an hour ago, before she'd gasped and knocked over her champagne glass in that perfectly clumsy way that made every man within ten feet want to rescue her.

Lennox had been the first to stand.

"I'll help her find something to change into," he'd said, already moving. He hadn't looked at me. He never did anymore.

I smoothed my hands over my lap. My gown was silver, high-necked, elegant. I'd chosen it carefully. I'd thought he might notice.

The chair beside me scraped back.

"All alone, Mrs. Hawkins?"

Dominic Reyes dropped into Lennox's empty seat, bringing with him the smell of scotch and expensive cologne gone sour. He was one of Lennox's associates. Hedge fund, I thought. Or private equity. They all blurred together after a while.

"My husband will be back shortly," I said quietly.

Dominic leaned closer. Too close. "Doesn't look like it to me."

I shifted in my chair, angling away. He followed.

"You know, I always wondered what he saw in you." His voice was low, conversational, like we were discussing the weather. "You're pretty enough, I guess. But you're so... quiet. A guy like Lennox needs someone with a little more fire. Someone like—" He tilted his head toward the dance floor, where Jolene was now pressed against my husband's chest, swaying to music I could barely hear.

My throat tightened. I reached for my water glass. Dominic's hand closed around my wrist.

"Where are you going?"

His fingers dug in, not hard enough to bruise but hard enough to hold. I looked down at his hand, then up at his face. His eyes were glassy, unfocused.

"Let go," I said.

"Come on. Don't be like that." He grinned. "I'm just being friendly."

I pulled back. He held tighter.

With my free hand, I fumbled for my phone in my clutch, fingers shaking. I unlocked it under the table and typed without looking down.

*Help. Table 7. Please.*

I hit send.

Across the ballroom, I watched Lennox's hand slip into his jacket pocket. He pulled out his phone, glanced at the screen. His expression didn't change. He read the message — I knew he did, I saw his eyes move — and then he slid the phone back into his pocket and returned his attention to Jolene.

She said something. He laughed.

Something cold settled in my chest.

I wrenched my wrist free and stood so quickly my chair tipped back. Dominic blinked up at me, surprised.

"Relax," he said. "I was just—"

I walked away. I didn't run. I kept my head up and my steps even, the way I'd learned to do at a hundred events just like this one. No one looked at me. No one ever did.

The restroom was empty, all white marble and gold fixtures. I locked myself in a stall and pressed my hands flat against the cool metal door. My wrist ached where Dominic had grabbed it. I could still feel the heat of his fingers.

I pulled out my phone again and stared at the message I'd sent.

Delivered. Read.

No response.

I typed again, slower this time.

*I want a divorce.*

My thumb hovered over the send button. The words sat there on the screen, stark and final.

I thought about the apartment we shared, where he slept in the guest room and I pretended not to notice. I thought about the dinner parties where Jolene sat across from me and smiled. I thought about the way he used to hold my hand, years ago, before I gave up my hearing to pull him out of that car wreck. Before he started calling my head-tilt pathetic.

I thought about five years of waiting for him to see me.

I locked the screen without sending.

When I came back to the ballroom, Lennox was dancing with her. His hand rested at the small of her back, fingers spread possessive and easy. She had her cheek against his shoulder. They moved together like they'd done this a thousand times.

Maybe they had.

I sat down at our empty table and watched them until the song ended. Then I picked up my clutch, stood, and walked out of The Plaza alone.

The next morning, I woke up and realized I was late.

Not late for an appointment. Late.

I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, counting backward. Three weeks. Maybe four. I'd been so numb lately I'd stopped paying attention to my own body.

I got dressed in silence, took the subway to Mount Sinai, and checked in under my own name. No one recognized me. I was grateful for that.

The exam room was small and cold. I sat on the paper-covered table and answered the nurse's questions in a voice that didn't sound like mine.

When the doctor came back, she was smiling.

"Congratulations, Mrs. Hawkins. You're about six weeks along."

I stared at her.

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely. Would you like to see?"

She turned the ultrasound screen toward me. There it was — a tiny blur, barely visible, but there. Real.

She printed the image and handed it to me. I held it in both hands, careful not to bend the edges.

I walked out of the hospital into bright October sunlight, and for the first time in months, I smiled.

Maybe this would change everything.

Maybe now he would see me.