I Made His Mistress My Maid

The taxi dropped me off at the corner of my own street. I paid the driver and waited until he disappeared around the bend before I moved. My mind was eerily calm, like the eye of a hurricane—all the destruction swirling around me, but at my center, perfect clarity.

I slipped into the garden through the side gate, using the key I kept hidden beneath a loose stone. The back door would be unlocked—Mark never bothered with security when he thought I was thousands of miles away. His arrogance would be his downfall.

Inside, the mudroom was mercifully empty, though I could hear the party continuing in full swing. I moved silently through the kitchen, noting with disgust that they'd raided my wine collection. Three empty bottles of my favorite Bordeaux sat on the counter, their corks tossed carelessly aside.

"Perfect," I whispered to myself.

In our bedroom—our bedroom—I found my suitcase still packed from the trip. I'd planned to unpack tomorrow, when I'd imagined surprising Mark with my early return. Instead, I used it now, swapping my travel-wrinkled business attire for something more... appropriate.

Victoria Dalton had always favored conservative, expensive clothing—the kind that announced wealth without shouting it. The kind that made people stand straighter when she entered a room. I pulled out a navy Chanel suit I rarely wore, along with pearl earrings that had been my mother's.

"Too young," I muttered, studying my reflection.

I reached for the makeup case in my bathroom drawer, applying a heavier hand than usual. Deeper foundation to suggest Victoria's age, more pronounced lines around my eyes, a more severe lip color. I pulled my hair back in a tight chignon, securing it with pins until not a strand escaped.

"Better," I said to my reflection.

Victoria Dalton had always looked down on me, her nose tilted at just the right angle to convey her disapproval. I practiced her expression in the mirror—that perfect blend of condescension and cold authority that made lesser mortals tremble.

"Almost there," I whispered.

I slipped on a pair of low-heeled pumps—Victoria never wore anything flashy—and took a deep breath. The woman in the mirror looked nothing like the Eleanor who had left for Tokyo three weeks ago. She looked like a woman who could destroy lives with a single glance.

I straightened my shoulders and headed for the living room.

The music hit me like a physical force as I entered. Tiffany was still sprawled on my sofa, surrounded by her friends. They were laughing, drinking my wine, eating food I hadn't purchased.

"Excuse me," I said, my voice carrying over the music.

The room fell silent, all eyes turning toward me. Tiffany's face went blank with confusion.

"I'm sorry," she said, setting down her glass. "We didn't hear you come in. I thought Mark said you weren't—"

"I'm Victoria Dalton," I interrupted, letting my gaze sweep over the room like a cold wind. "Mark's mother."

Tiffany's face drained of color. She scrambled to her feet, my silk robe slipping off one shoulder.

"Mrs. Dalton!" she stammered, suddenly aware of her state of undress. "I didn't—we were just—"

"Having a party in my son's house," I finished for her, my voice crisp as autumn leaves. "Using my crystal. Wearing my clothes."

One of Tiffany's friends—a rail-thin girl with bright pink hair—giggled nervously. "Is this, like, a joke? Mark said his mom was in the Hamptons."

I turned my gaze to her, letting it linger until she looked away. "I cut my visit short. One does, when one hears rumors about what's happening in one's son's home."

Tiffany smoothed the silk robe—my robe—over her knees, trying to cover herself. "It's not what it looks like, Mrs. Dalton. We were just celebrating. Mark said you wouldn't mind."

"Did he?" I raised an eyebrow. "And where is my son now?"

"He's... he's working late," Tiffany said, her eyes darting around the room. "He said he'd be back later."

"How convenient." I moved further into the room, noting how they all shrank back as I passed. "And these are your friends?"

"Yes," Tiffany nodded eagerly, as if this were a test she could pass. "This is Jessica, and Mike, and—"

"I don't need their names," I cut her off. "They can leave."

"What?" Tiffany looked startled.

"Now." I pulled out my phone, checking the time with deliberate slowness. "I need to evaluate whether you're suitable for the Dalton name without an audience."

The room cleared quickly after that. Tiffany's friends scrambled for their things, shooting her sympathetic glances as they fled. Within minutes, we were alone.

"Sit," I commanded, gesturing to the chair across from me.

Tiffany sank into it, pulling the robe tighter around her. "Mrs. Dalton, I can explain—"

"First," I said, leaning forward, "that robe. It's mine. Go put something else on."

She hurried upstairs, returning moments later in a sundress that I recognized as something I'd left hanging in the guest room closet. Better, but still not good enough.

"Stand," I ordered.

She rose unsteadily.

"Posture," I critiqued, circling her slowly. "A Dalton woman stands like she owns the room, not like she's afraid of it."

Tiffany straightened her spine.

"Better." I nodded. "Now, tell me. What exactly were you thinking, hosting a party in my son's home without his mother's permission?"

"I thought—" she began, then stopped herself. "Mark said you'd be gone for another week. He said you never used this house anyway, always traveling for work."

"And the crystal?" I moved to the coffee table, picking up one of my mother's tumblers. "These are antiques. Family heirlooms."

"I didn't know," Tiffany whispered, her eyes wide. "Mark just said to use whatever we wanted."

I set the glass down with a sharp click. "A Dalton woman would know better than to serve guests with anything less than perfect grace. Your hosting skills leave much to be desired."

Tiffany's eyes filled with tears. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Dalton. I really want to make a good impression."

"Clearly." I moved to the window, pulling out my phone as if checking messages. Instead, I quickly snapped photos of the room—the empty bottles, the cigarette butts in my crystal ashtrays, the general destruction of my home.

"I just—I love Mark so much," Tiffany continued desperately. "He said you'd understand. He said you wanted him to be happy."

I turned back to her, letting a small smile play at my lips. "Did he now?"

"He said you two have an arrangement," Tiffany blurted out. "That your marriage is just for show now."

I raised my eyebrow, filing that little tidbit away for later. "Is that what he told you?"

"He said you're never home anyway," Tiffany continued, gaining confidence. "That you're too busy with your career to be a real wife."

I nodded slowly, as if considering her words. Inside, I was memorizing every detail for the divorce proceedings.

"Well," I said finally, "we'll see about that."