My Husband Destroyed My Legs for His Mistress

The text from Cyrus was still unread in my phone when Donovan called that afternoon. He didn't ask if I was free. He just said, "Milan needs support. She got a bad review. She's coming for dinner tonight."

I wanted to say something. I wanted to say the salmon was still in the fridge and I had planned to spend the evening with my legs propped up and a book. But the words died in my throat. The Adeline who argued with him was gone. She was someone I used to know.

"Okay," I said. "What time?"

"Seven."

He hung up.

I hate that his voice still did something to me. I hate that even after what I heard on our anniversary, I still felt a small pull in my chest when he said my name. I wheeled into the kitchen and took down the good china. I set the table for three. I moved slow, because in a wheelchair everything takes twice as long, and I wanted to feel like I was doing something useful instead of just waiting for her to walk through my door.

Milan arrived at seven sharp. She wore a cream dress and a coat that cost more than my father's whole studio. She kissed the air on both sides of my cheek. "Adeline, you look wonderful. Really. I don't know how you keep this place so lovely, with everything you're going through."

Everything I'm going through. She said it like I was a hospital ward.

"Thank you," I said.

She smiled and walked past me. She didn't wait for me to lead. She went straight into the living room, her heels clicking over my hardwood, her eyes moving across the mantelpiece like she was reading a menu.

Donovan came in behind her and poured her a glass of wine. He didn't offer me one. He just handed it to her and said, "There. Relax. You've had a hard week."

I wheeled in after them and watched. The chandelier above the table reflected in her glass. Outside, the rain had started. It slid down the tall windows, each drop a small gray tear.

Milan set down her drink and drifted toward the mantel. She picked up a framed photo. She set it down. She picked up a small ceramic bowl. She set it down. And then her hand found the crystal trophy.

I saw her fingers close around it. I saw her test the weight. And I knew, the way you know a thing before it happens, what she was about to do.

She didn't knock it. She let it slip. It fell and hit the floor and shattered into a hundred bright pieces that scattered across the wood like frozen water.

The sound was like a bone breaking.

I made a noise I didn't recognize. It came out of me before I could stop it. My father's trophy. The last thing he ever gave me. I wheeled forward, my hands shaking, reaching for the shards at my feet.

"Don't." Donovan's voice cut the room. "Adeline, don't make this a thing."

I froze. My hand hovered over a piece of glass that had my father's name etched into it. MARCUS PIERCE. LIFETIME ACHIEVEMENT. The letters caught the light.

"It was an accident," Milan said. Her voice was small and trembling. "I'm so sorry, Adeline. I didn't mean to—" She pressed her palm to her chest. "I'm a mess today. That review really got to me."

Donovan was already at her side, his arm around her shoulders. "You're fine. It's just a piece of glass."

Just a piece of glass.

I looked up at him. The man I had loved. The man who had destroyed my legs and married me for the publicity. He was holding Milan and looking at me like I was the problem.

"It was my father's," I said. My voice cracked on the word. I hate that it cracked.

"It was a trophy," he said. "She didn't mean to break it. Stop being dramatic. You're embarrassing our guest."

Our guest. Our guest was standing in my home wearing my father's broken trophy on her shoes, and Donovan was telling me I was the one being dramatic.

Milan looked at me over his shoulder. Her eyes were wet, but they didn't reach her mouth. She smiled, just barely, just at me. Just for one second. Just enough that I could see it.

I didn't say anything. I looked down at the shards. I looked at the letters of my father's name. And then I turned the chair around and wheeled myself back to the bedroom.

The door closed behind me. The rain was louder in here. I sat in the dark with my hands in my lap, my thumb pressed hard into my wrist.

I didn't cry. I don't know why I didn't cry. Maybe because crying felt like giving her something.

I pulled out my phone. My fingers were steady now.

"It's the trophy. He let her break my father's trophy."

The reply came in seconds.

"I know. I'm already moving."

I stared at it for a long time. The room was dark and the rain kept falling and somewhere on the other side of the door Milan was being comforted by a man who had once promised to love me.

I put the phone down. I looked at the ceiling.

Tomorrow, I told myself, I will do something. I will make him see what he let her do.

But even then, some small and quiet part of me already knew he never would.