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His Mistress Moved In While I Was Hospitalized Novel Cover

His Mistress Moved In While I Was Hospitalized

I stared at my phone, reading Michael's text for the fifth time as if the words might somehow rearrange themselves into something more thoughtful: 'Stuck in a meeting. Don't wait up. Happy birthday.' Thirty-five years old today, and I was celebrating alone in our cavernous Manhattan apartment. The space felt hollow despite the designer furniture and original artwork that Michael's mother, Eleanor, had insisted upon. 'A Zhou residence must reflect proper taste,' she'd said, dismissing my art history degree as if I couldn't possibly understand true sophistication. The Tiffany box sat on the glass coffee table, its robin's-egg blue a cheerful mockery against the apartment's muted grays and whites. I'd been eyeing it all evening, nursing a glass of wine that had long since warmed to room temperature. Part of me wanted to believe that this year would be different—that the box contained something chosen with care, with me in mind. My fingers traced the white satin ribbon. Ten years of marriage had taught me to lower my expectations, but hope was a stubborn thing.
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Chapter 3

I stared at the three identical Tiffany bracelets laid out on my desk, each one a perfect silver circle with the same heart charm, the same impersonal engraving. In the harsh morning light, they looked like what they truly were—symbols of a marriage built on lies. My fingers hovered over my laptop keyboard as I created the eBay listing, a small act of rebellion that sent a thrill through my veins.

"Symbolic to liquidate false love—starting bid $500," I typed, my lips curving into a smile that felt foreign on my face. For a moment, I hesitated before clicking 'Post.' This wasn't just selling jewelry; it was the first step in dismantling the carefully constructed facade of my life.

I pressed the button. Done.

The apartment felt different now—no longer a prison of luxury but a stage set I was preparing to abandon. I moved through the rooms with new awareness, noticing details I'd overlooked: how few personal photographs adorned the walls, how the bookshelves contained volumes Eleanor had deemed "appropriate" rather than books I actually enjoyed, how even the scent of the place—an expensive fragrance Michael had selected—belonged to someone else's idea of perfection.

The sound of keys in the door jolted me from my thoughts. Michael wasn't supposed to be home until evening.

"Emily?" His voice carried through the apartment, unnaturally bright. "I have a surprise for you!"

I closed my laptop quickly and moved to the foyer, where Michael stood grinning, holding a carrier in his hands. Something inside it moved.

"What is that?" I asked, though I already knew.

"I thought our home could use some warmth." He set the carrier down and opened the door. A fluffy Persian cat with copper-colored eyes emerged, its long fur gleaming in the light. "Isn't she beautiful? The breeder said she's the best of her litter."

I took an instinctive step back, already feeling the familiar tightening in my chest. "Michael, I'm allergic to cats. Severely allergic."

His smile didn't falter. "Oh, the breeder assured me this breed is hypoallergenic. You'll be fine."

That was a lie. No cat was truly hypoallergenic, especially not long-haired Persians. Michael knew this. He'd witnessed my allergic reaction at his cousin's house years ago, had seen how my eyes had swollen shut, how I'd struggled to breathe until the emergency inhaler kicked in.

"She can't stay here," I said firmly, backing away as the cat approached, its tail held high.

"Don't be dramatic, Emily." Michael scooped up the cat, holding it against his expensive suit without concern for the fur that immediately clung to the fabric. "Her name is Duchess. I've already set up everything she needs in the guest room."

The guest room. The one nearest to our bedroom.

"This isn't a discussion," I said, my voice steady despite the panic rising in my throat. "Either the cat goes, or I do."

Michael's expression hardened. "You're overreacting. Again. First the bracelets, now this. I'm trying to do something nice for us."

"For us? Or for you?" I felt my airways beginning to constrict, the first warning sign. "Did Vanessa suggest you get a cat? Does she have one too?"

His face flushed with anger. "Leave her out of this. This is about you being ungrateful."

I didn't stay to argue. I grabbed my purse and headed for the door, needing fresh air before my reaction worsened. "The cat needs to be gone when I get back."

But when I returned hours later, Duchess was still there, lounging on the living room sofa as if she owned it. Michael was nowhere to be seen—another "work emergency" according to his text.

I took my allergy medication and retreated to the bedroom, closing the door firmly. But it wasn't enough. In the middle of the night, I woke gasping for breath, my face swollen and hot, hives spreading across my skin. I fumbled for my inhaler, but the medication wasn't helping. The room spun around me as I tried to reach my phone.

The last thing I remember before collapsing was the thought that perhaps this wasn't an accident at all—perhaps Michael knew exactly what he was doing when he brought that cat home.

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