My Husband Left Me to Die for His Mistress

The socket was angry the morning of the shoot. Red at the edges. Hot to the touch. I pressed my thumb against the inflamed rim and hissed through my teeth.

"Cassius." I stood in the doorway of the bedroom. He was on the bed, tying his shoes, phone wedged between his shoulder and ear. "I can't wear the prosthetic today. Look at it."

He didn't look up.

"I said I can't—"

"I heard you." He tied the second shoe. Slowly. "Take some ibuprofen. Kessler is bringing the whole board. They want to see the wife."

"The wife."

"Elise." His voice thinned to a wire. "Don't start."

He stood up. Straightened his cufflinks. Walked past me like I was a piece of furniture that had shifted an inch out of place.

I stood there a long time after he left. Then I went to the bathroom, swallowed three pills dry, and slid the socket over the raw skin. The pain flared white behind my eyes. I gripped the counter until the room stopped tilting.

I put on the dress he had chosen. Ivory silk. High neckline. Long sleeves to hide the collarbone that had gotten too sharp over the last year. I painted my mouth the color of wine and looked at the woman in the mirror.

She looked like someone I used to know.

---

Grant Corp's lobby smelled like new money and gardenias. The photographer's crew had already set up under the marble arch — softboxes, reflectors, a bank of monitors humming quietly. Cassius stood near the coffee cart, laughing at something a junior associate was saying. He glanced up when I walked in.

He did not smile. He did not come to me.

He lifted his chin an inch, which meant *stand there*.

I stood there.

"Beautiful," the photographer said, circling me with his lens. "Just — can we do something about the — " He gestured vaguely at my leg. "The shift in weight. Can we hide that?"

"She'll lean on me," Cassius said, walking over. His hand landed on the small of my back. His palm was cold through the silk.

That was when the elevator chimed.

She stepped out the way certain women step onto runways — as if the floor had been arranged specifically for the sound of her heels. Red dress. Skin the color of warm honey. Hair loose down her back. She was tall enough to look Cassius in the eye without tilting her chin.

"Everyone," the photographer called out, "this is our model — Avianna James."

Cassius's hand went still against my spine.

I knew before I knew. My body knew. The way a body knows a coming storm.

Avianna's eyes swept the room and landed on me. She smiled. It was a beautiful smile. Wide. Bright. The kind that got you booked for toothpaste ads.

"Oh," she said, walking toward us. "You must be the wife."

"Elise," I said.

"Elise." She turned the name over in her mouth like she was tasting it for flaws. "I've heard so much. That interview — God, I cried. Truly." She placed a hand over her heart. "You were the ballerina, weren't you? Before."

*Before.* The same word he had used.

"I was."

"That's so brave." She tilted her head. "Still coming out to things like this. On the — " Her eyes dropped, just for a beat, to the hem of my dress. "You know. I don't think I could. If it were me, I'd want to just, like, disappear for a while. Let myself heal."

Someone in the crew laughed. A short, uncertain bark that died fast.

"Fashion moves so quickly," Avianna went on. Her voice was sweet as poured syrup. "Some women just can't keep up with the pace, you know? It's not their fault. Bodies expire. That's just biology."

My hand found the edge of the marble console behind me. The stone was cool. Steady.

I looked at Cassius.

He was looking at his phone.

He adjusted his tie with two fingers. He did not lift his eyes. He did not speak. He simply stood three feet away from me and let her carve.

"Well," Avianna said cheerfully, "let's get this shot. Cassius — you're with the wife first?"

"With Elise," I said.

She blinked. "Sorry?"

"My name is Elise."

She smiled wider. "Of course it is, sweetheart."

---

I don't remember the drive home. I remember unlocking the door. I remember sitting on the edge of the bed and rolling down the silicone liner and seeing the blood — a bright ring of it where the socket had been grinding all afternoon.

I didn't turn on the lamp.

I sat in the dark and watched the city come on across the river. Windows lighting up one by one. Somewhere out there people were making dinner. Kissing hello. Meaning it.

Four hours passed. I know because the microwave clock kept blinking at me from the kitchen, green and patient.

He did not come home.

---

Across the East River, in a small apartment in Queens, my father was sitting at his kitchen table under a single yellow lamp. He had a leather scrapbook open in front of him. Every one of my performance programs was pressed inside it. He was writing on a legal pad in his neat stage manager's hand — dates, times, a hotel name in Midtown that Cassius had claimed was Chicago.

He wrote a name on the outside of a manila envelope.

*Marcelo Castro.*

He underlined it once. Then he taped the envelope to the inside back cover of the scrapbook, closed it gently, and placed his palm flat against the leather for a long moment, as if making a promise to someone who could not yet hear him.

Then he switched off the lamp.