My Husband Dragged Me to Jail for His Mistress

I made roasted chicken with rosemary tonight. The kind Drew used to like before he stopped coming home for dinner. Before Giselle Rose came back into his life and every warm thing between us went cold.

I carry the covered dish through the lobby of his building—our building, technically, though I haven't lived here in months. The doorman nods without smiling. Everyone in this place knows. They've watched me arrive with hope and leave with less of it, over and over, for three years.

The elevator is mirrored on all sides. I see myself holding the dish: dark hair pulled back, simple dress, the gold band still on my finger. I look like someone playing the role of wife. I wonder if I ever looked like anything else.

The penthouse is on the fortieth floor. I have a key, but I knock anyway. It's a habit now—entering Drew's space feels like trespassing even when I'm invited. Which I'm not, tonight. But it's our anniversary. Three years since the wedding neither of us wanted. I thought maybe if I showed up, if I tried one more time, something might shift.

The door swings open before I finish knocking.

Drew stands there in shirtsleeves, tie loosened, looking past me like I'm blocking his view of something more important. "What are you doing here?"

"I brought dinner." I lift the dish slightly. "It's our anniversary."

His face doesn't change. "I'm busy, Elina."

"I know. I just thought—"

"You thought wrong."

He steps aside, not to let me in, but because someone is walking up behind him. Giselle Rose appears in the hallway, barefoot, wearing one of Drew's shirts over her dress. Her coat is draped over the back of the sofa. Her heels are by the door, settled in like they belong.

She sees me and smiles. It's a soft smile, almost apologetic. "Oh. Elina. I didn't know you were coming by."

Drew's hand is still on the doorframe. He doesn't move away from her. Doesn't explain. His jaw is tight, but not with guilt—with irritation, like I'm a problem he's tired of solving.

I look at Giselle. At the shirt. At Drew's hand, so close to her shoulder. At the way she stands in his space without hesitation, without the constant second-guessing that has defined every moment I've spent in this apartment.

I set the dish down on the entry table. My hands are steady. That surprises me.

"I'll go," I say quietly.

Drew exhales through his nose. "Wait."

He walks past me into the living room, and I hear a drawer open. When he comes back, he's holding a manila envelope. He holds it out without meeting my eyes.

"What is this?"

"Divorce papers," he says. "Sign them."

The air goes thin. I take the envelope because my hands do it automatically, before my brain catches up. I pull out the document. It's thick. Professional. Every page flagged with a little yellow tab where my signature is required.

"You already signed," I say. His name is there at the bottom of the first page, black ink, dated two days ago.

"I had them drawn up last week," Drew says. His voice is flat, businesslike. "You'll keep the settlement we agreed on when we married. No alimony. Clean break."

Giselle shifts her weight behind him. She's watching me carefully now, and I realize she's waiting for something. Tears, maybe. Begging. Some visible crack she can carry away as proof that she won.

I look at Drew. At the man I tried so hard to reach for three years. The man who looked at me on our wedding day like I was a debt being paid. Who flinched when I touched him. Who never once asked what I wanted, what I felt, whether I was all right.

"Do you have a pen?" I ask.

Something flickers across his face. Surprise, maybe. But he reaches into his pocket and hands me one.

I don't read the document. I flip to each tab and sign my name. Elina Patterson. Elina Patterson. Elina Patterson. It takes less than two minutes. When I'm done, I close the folder, slide it back into the envelope, and hand it to him.

"There," I say. "Clean break."

I turn and walk to the elevator. My thumb presses hard into the inside of my left wrist, a habit I've had since I was a child. It's the only part of me that's shaking.

The elevator doors close. I watch Drew's floor number drop away: 40, 39, 38. My reflection stares back at me from the mirrored walls, and I don't recognize the woman I see. She looks calm. Composed.

I don't cry until I'm outside. The cold hits my face and something breaks open in my chest, but I keep walking. I don't look back at the building. I don't let myself stop.

I made it three years. I can make it to my car.