My Fiancé Bought His Mistress My Wedding Dress

The real estate agent's voice on the phone was apologetic. Confused.

"Miss Spencer, I'm so sorry for the mix-up. Miss Bailey's assistant called about the fixtures you selected—the Italian marble, the custom cabinetry—and I wanted to confirm before we proceed with installation. Should I coordinate directly with her, or..."

I stood in the Tribeca building lobby. Afternoon light slanted through floor-to-ceiling windows. Outside, the Hudson River gleamed like hammered steel.

"Miss Bailey?" I said.

"Yes. Jazlyn Bailey. The penthouse was transferred to her name last week. I assumed you two were coordinating, given that Mr. Walker signed all the paperwork, but if there's been an error—"

"No error," I said.

My notebook was open in my other hand. Six months of sketches. The kitchen island. The bedroom windows. The piano placement in the corner where morning light would hit the keys.

I'd drawn it all in pencil. Soft lines. Erasable.

"Miss Spencer?"

"Install whatever Miss Bailey wants," I said.

I closed the notebook. Walked to the elevator. Pressed the button for the ground floor.

The agent was still talking. I hung up.

Outside, the evening air was cool. Sharp. I stood on the sidewalk and looked up at the building. Sixteenth floor. Corner unit. The windows I'd stood in front of a dozen times, imagining.

I turned and walked west toward the water.

I didn't look back.

—

The restaurant was Le Bernardin. White tablecloths. Soft lighting. A Michelin star for every course.

Christian had texted that morning: *Dinner tonight? There's someone I want you to meet.*

I knew who.

I arrived exactly on time. The host led me to a table by the window. Christian was already seated. So was Jazlyn.

She wore white. Valentino. Her hair was down. The fake emerald at her throat caught the candlelight.

Christian stood when he saw me. Smiled. Pulled out the chair directly across from Jazlyn.

"Sloane," he said. "I'm so glad you could make it."

I sat.

Jazlyn's smile was warm. Practiced. "It's so nice to finally have dinner together. Christian talks about you all the time."

"Does he," I said.

The waiter appeared. Took our drink orders. Christian ordered wine I knew he didn't like—something expensive, something Jazlyn had probably mentioned once.

The first course arrived. Oysters. Jazlyn talked about a charity gala she was planning. Christian listened like she was describing the cure for cancer. He touched her hand. Laughed at her jokes. Refilled her water glass before she had to ask.

I ate my oysters.

"Sloane," Jazlyn said. "Christian mentioned you do some kind of freelance work?"

"Something like that."

"How wonderful. It must be so freeing not to have a real schedule." She tilted her head. "Do you ever worry about stability? Financially, I mean."

Christian's fork paused halfway to his mouth. He didn't look at me.

"Not particularly," I said.

The second course. The third. Jazlyn's hand on Christian's arm. His laugh. Her stories about vacation homes and European summers and people I'd met a hundred times under different circumstances.

I watched them perform.

Every touch. Every smile. Every calculated gesture of intimacy designed to remind me where I ranked.

I said almost nothing.

I didn't need to.

I was memorizing.

When dessert came, Jazlyn excused herself to the restroom. Christian leaned back in his chair. Looked at me.

"You're being very quiet," he said.

"Am I."

"I appreciate you coming tonight. I know this is... complicated."

"Is it?"

His expression shifted. Harder. "Don't make this difficult, Sloane."

I set down my fork. "I'm not making anything."

Jazlyn returned. More wine. More laughter. Christian's hand found hers on top of the table.

I finished my dessert.

When the check came, Christian paid. He didn't look at the total.

Outside, the rain had started. Midtown streets slicked black and gleaming. Taxis hissed past. The air smelled like wet pavement and exhaust.

Jazlyn pulled her coat tighter. "God, I hate this weather."

Christian flagged a cab. It pulled to the curb. He opened the door for her. She slid inside.

I stood on the sidewalk. Waiting.

Christian turned to me. "You good to get home?"

"I'm fine."

"Good." He started toward the cab.

Then the other taxi came.

I saw it before I heard it. Yellow blur. Too fast. The red light meant nothing.

Christian's body moved.

Not toward me.

Toward the open cab door. Toward Jazlyn.

His arm shot out. Caught my shoulder. Shoved.

I stumbled backward. My heel caught the curb. I went down hard. Palms hit pavement. My right wrist cracked against asphalt and I felt the bracelet snap.

The sound was small. Delicate. Like something breaking underwater.

I looked down.

Twenty-three pearls scattered across wet pavement. Rolling. Bouncing. Disappearing into the gutter. Under tires. Into storm drains.

I tried to catch them. My hands scraped concrete. I grabbed two. Three. The rest were gone.

Christian was in the cab. Bent over Jazlyn. His hands on her face. "Are you okay? Are you hurt?"

She was crying. "I'm fine. I'm fine."

"You're sure?"

"Yes."

I knelt on the curb. Rain soaking through my dress. Three pearls in my palm.

Christian finally looked at me. "Sloane. You alright?"

I closed my fist around the pearls.

"I'm fine," I said.

The cab pulled away. Christian inside. Jazlyn pressed against him.

I stood. My wrist throbbed. My dress was ruined. The broken clasp dangled from my wrist like a severed nerve.

I walked to the corner. Found another cab. Got in.

The driver asked where I was going.

I gave him my father's address.

In my hand, three pearls.

Out of twenty-three.

I looked out the window at the rain and the lights and the city that had watched me pretend for five years.

And I stopped pretending.