My Husband Chose His Mistress Over Our Daughter

I stayed in Rosalina’s bedroom until midnight.

The Montgomery mansion was huge, dark, and silent.

I sat on the edge of her small bed with my knees pulled up against my chest. Her star projector was still plugged into the baseboard. It spun slowly, casting dim yellow constellations across the white ceiling. In my lap, I held her plush rabbit, Barnaby. The gray ears were worn thin from where she chewed on them whenever she was scared or sleepy.

I pressed the rabbit against my face. It still smelled like her—lavender shampoo, baby lotion, and sweet milk.

Down the grand hallway, the heavy front door clicked shut.

Footsteps echoed across the marble downstairs. Gabriel was home.

He hadn’t come to the hospital. He hadn’t come to the morgue to see our daughter’s broken body. And now, he didn't walk down the corridor to check on me.

A timid knock came at Rosalina's door.

It wasn’t Gabriel. It was Mrs. Gable, the head housekeeper. She carried a tall crystal vase filled with fresh white lilies. The scent was cloying and thick. It made my stomach twist into a knot.

"Mr. Montgomery asked that these be brought up," Mrs. Gable whispered. Her eyes stayed glued to the carpet. "He said they are for the room."

White lilies.

They were Celeste’s favorite flowers. Gabriel ordered them by the dozen for every birthday and anniversary Celeste ever had. Rosalina had hated them. The pollen made her sneeze, and the heavy smell always gave her headaches.

"Take them away," I said.

My voice didn't sound like mine. It was flat, dry, and hollow.

Mrs. Gable flinched. "Yes, ma'am."

She backed out quickly and pulled the door shut.

A second later, my phone buzzed on the mattress.

I picked it up. A new text from Gabriel lit the screen.

*The service is arranged for ten tomorrow morning. Family plot at St. Jude's. It will be kept strictly private. Rosalina's passing needs to be handled discreetly. Do not speak to reporters.*

I read the text once.

I read it a second time.

Then a third.

*Handled discreetly.*

Our daughter had died on cold concrete while he rushed off to soothe Celeste’s boy with cough syrup. And to Gabriel, her death was just a PR problem. An inconvenience to tidy up before Monday.

No tears came. My chest felt completely empty, as if every vital organ had been carved out and burned to ash.

I turned the phone over. I set it face-down on the rug.

The little yellow stars on the ceiling kept spinning. Behind my eyes, something warm and fragile died. In its place, a strange, absolute stillness settled into my bones.

***

The next morning was gray and wet. A thin drizzle fell over the headstones at St. Jude’s cemetery.

The service was tiny. Just immediate family and a few high-society acquaintances. Ophelia sat in the front folding chair under the green canopy, wrapped in black mink. She sobbed into a lace handkerchief with loud, theatrical gasps.

"My sweet angel," Ophelia wept, dabbing at her mascara. "Our poor, precious girl! God has broken my heart today!"

I watched her with dry eyes. Ophelia had visited Rosalina twice in five years. Every time, she complained that the child was too noisy and didn't act like a true Montgomery.

Near the edge of the tent stood a massive circular wreath of white lilies. The silk banner across the middle read: *With eternal love and deepest grief, Celeste and Angelo.*

Celeste wasn't there. Gabriel had told the guests she was resting, far too heartbroken by the tragedy to stand in the rain.

Gabriel stood three inches to my right.

He wore a tailored black coat. His hands stayed buried in his pockets. His jaw was set in a tight line, his dark hair slicked back with rain. He looked like an executive attending a mandatory retirement ceremony.

He didn't touch me. He didn't reach for my hand. He didn't even look in my direction.

The priest read a psalm, but the words were just gray static against the patter of rain.

Two cemetery attendants stepped forward. They pulled the nylon straps, and the casket began to descend into the rectangular pit.

It was so small.

A tiny white box, barely longer than my arm. It looked like an expensive jewelry case. Everything I loved in this world was locked inside that lacquered wood.

I kept my chin high. I kept my back straight. Inside my deep coat pocket, my fingers curled tight around the velvet ears of Rosalina's rabbit.

Behind me, two women murmured in hushed voices.

"Look at Julianna," one whispered. "Not a single tear."

"Terrible," the other breathed back. "She’s a federal judge. Ice cold through and through. The poor grandmother is the only one showing real grief."

The words drifted past my ears like dead leaves.

They thought I was numb.

They thought I was heartless.

They didn't know that the Julianna who cried had already drowned. The woman who donated her marrow, hid Gabriel's secrets, and ruined her own honor for a husband's love was gone forever.

The white casket touched the wet mud with a soft thud.

Beside me, Gabriel pulled back his sleeve and checked his watch.

I turned my head and looked at his profile.

I wasn't cold.

I was becoming a blade.