After My Boyfriend Married His Mistress, I Married His Rival

Caspian drove me back to the apartment building on 72nd Street. He pulled up to the curb and left the engine idling.

"Do you want me to come up?" he asked. His hands rested lightly on the steering wheel.

"No," I said. "It will only take twenty minutes."

He nodded once. He didn't ask questions. "I'll wait right here."

I took the elevator up to the fourteenth floor. The apartment smelled like Kingsley’s expensive sandalwood cologne and fresh cedar. It had been my home for four years. I paid half the rent, even though my name was never on the lease.

I didn't waste time looking around. I pulled two large rolling suitcases from the hallway closet and unzipped them on the bed.

I worked quickly and quietly. I packed my clothes, my shoes, and my coats. I went to the kitchen and packed my ceramic coffee press and the bag of dark roast beans from the counter. Then I went to the bookshelf in the den. I pulled down all seven of my journals. Their leather covers were worn at the corners.

Finally, I picked up my small potted cactus from the window ledge. It was green and spiky, surviving on almost nothing.

Before I left, I stopped by Kingsley's desk.

Sitting next to his computer was a silver frame. It held a picture of us from the Arnold Legal Group launch party three years ago. I had my head tilted back, laughing, completely wrapped up in him. Kingsley wasn't looking at me. He was looking straight into the camera lens, smiling for the room.

I picked up the frame, looked at my younger self for two seconds, and set it back down. Right where it belonged.

I didn't leave a note. I took my key off the ring, set it on the marble kitchen island, and closed the front door behind me.

***

By seven that evening, I was sitting in the guest room at Serena Walsh’s brownstone in Brooklyn.

Serena had given me a hug at the door, handed me a spare set of keys, and left me alone. She knew when to give me space.

The room was warm. I sat by the window with a fresh mug of coffee I had brewed myself. Steam rose into the cool air, smelling rich and earthy. My open journal lay on the small wooden desk in front of me, the cream-colored pages waiting. I gripped my pen, ready to write.

My phone vibrated on the bedside table.

The screen glowed with Kingsley’s name.

I took a sip of my coffee. The phone buzzed until it went silent.

Two seconds later, it buzzed again.

*Missed Call: Kingsley.*

Then a third time. The long vibrations hummed against the wood, loud and demanding. I didn't touch it. I ran the pad of my thumb over the metal rim of my watch, feeling the smooth, steady edge of it under my skin.

A text message popped up on the screen:

*Stop being dramatic. We'll talk tomorrow.*

I looked at the words. Five years of my life, summed up in his casual arrogance. He thought I was throwing a tantrum. He thought I was hiding in a hotel, waiting for him to call and throw me a scrap of attention.

I didn't reply. I turned the phone face down on the nightstand.

I picked up my pen and began to write. The ink flowed black and sharp onto the white page, closing a very long chapter.

***

At eight-thirty the next morning, I walked through the glass doors of Arnold Legal Group.

I wore my sharp charcoal blazer and black trousers. My hair was tied back in a neat bun. The reception area was quiet, the marble floors gleaming under the bright lights. Declan Park walked past with a tablet in his hand and gave me a polite nod.

"Morning, Azalea," he said.

"Good morning, Declan," I said smoothly.

I walked straight past my own corner desk and pushed open the heavy door to Kingsley's office.

Kingsley was sitting behind his wide mahogany desk, holding a cup of takeout coffee. He wore a fresh tailored suit, but his tie was slightly crooked. When he saw me, he let out a short, irritated breath and set his cup down.

"Azalea," he said, shaking his head. "You didn't come home last night. Where did you stay? You know I hate playing these childish games."

I didn't say a word. I walked up to his desk and set a crisp white envelope right in the middle of his blotter.

Kingsley looked down at it. He saw the black lettering: *Formal Resignation.*

He stared at the paper, then looked up at me. A small, incredulous smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. Then he laughed. It was an easy, dismissive sound that bounced off the glass walls.

"Resigning?" he asked, leaning back in his leather chair. "Azalea, stop. You're being absurd."

"My last day is today," I said. My voice was calm and level. "HR has the paperwork."

Kingsley’s smile faded, replaced by cold annoyance. He reached out and tapped the envelope with one knuckle.

"You can't just leave," he said, his tone turning sharp. "Be serious for a minute. The Hartwell merger brief is due in two weeks. You're the only one who knows the file from top to bottom. If we blow that deadline, we lose a two-million-dollar retainer."

He leaned forward, looking into my eyes like he always did when he wanted to manipulate me. "Go back to your desk. Take a breath. We’ll get dinner tonight and figure out Ember’s trust situation. Okay?"

I stood there and looked at him.

I counted three full seconds in the heavy silence. I saw the fine lines around his eyes, the expensive fabric of his suit, and the utter lack of respect in his face. I didn't feel rage. I didn't feel grief. I felt nothing at all.

"Good luck with it," I said.

I turned on my heel and walked out the door.