My Husband Made Me Cook For His Pregnant Mistress

The hallway was narrow. I was carrying folded towels from the dryer. Aylin came out of the guest room.

She stopped when she saw me. Her eyes dropped to my throat.

"Oh," she said. "That's pretty."

She reached out. Fast. Her fingers brushed the gold chain.

I stepped back.

The locket swung against my collarbone. My mother's locket. The only thing I had left of her. Gold. Engraved with her initials on the back.

Aylin smiled. "It's sweet. In a dated kind of way."

She tilted her head. "Have you thought about donating it? It really clashes with everything."

I said nothing.

She reached again. This time her hand closed around the chain.

I grabbed her wrist.

She gasped. Loud. Sharp.

"Let go," I said quietly.

Her eyes locked on mine. For one second, I saw it. The calculation. The decision.

Then she yanked backward. Hard.

The chain dug into my neck. I held on.

"Jonathan!" she screamed.

Footsteps pounded up the stairs.

Jonathan appeared at the top. Saw us. Saw my hand on her wrist.

He didn't ask what happened.

He crossed the hallway in two strides. Grabbed my wrist. Shoved me backward.

I stumbled. My shoulder hit the wall. Then my head struck the doorframe.

The impact was sharp. Bright. The world tilted.

I slid down. My legs folded. I sat hard on the floor.

Something warm ran down my temple. Into my eye. I blinked. The hallway blurred red.

Blood.

Aylin clutched her belly. Both hands pressed against the curve. She bent forward slightly. A low moan.

"The baby," she whispered. "Oh god. The baby."

Jonathan dropped to his knees beside her. His hand went to her shoulder. Her back.

"Are you okay?" His voice was soft. Urgent. "Did she hurt you?"

I sat three feet away. Blood dripping off my jaw onto my shirt.

Aylin's breathing was shallow. Fast. Theatrical.

"I don't know," she said. Her voice shook. "I just... I complimented her necklace. She grabbed me."

Jonathan's jaw tightened. He helped her stand. Guided her to the guest room. Sat her on the bed.

Then he turned.

Looked at me.

Not with concern. Not with guilt.

With irritation.

"What the hell, Emberly?"

I touched my temple. My fingers came away red.

"She tried to take my locket," I said.

My voice was steady. Quiet.

Jonathan exhaled hard. Ran a hand through his hair.

"She's pregnant. You can't just—" He stopped. Shook his head. "You need to calm down."

I stared at him.

He crouched beside Aylin again. Brushed her hair back. "We should go to the hospital. Just to be safe."

Aylin nodded. Tears on her cheeks now. Perfect tears.

Jonathan stood. Looked at me again.

"Give her the locket."

I didn't move.

"Emberly." His voice was cold now. Flat. "Give it to her."

"No."

His eyes narrowed. "She's stressed. You want something to happen to the baby over a piece of junk?"

The hallway was silent.

Blood dripped onto my lap. Dark spots spreading across the fabric.

Jonathan took a step toward me.

"Hand it over," he said. "Now."

I reached up. Unclasped the chain. My fingers were shaking.

The locket pooled in my palm. Gold. Warm. Heavy.

My mother's initials caught the light.

I held it out.

Jonathan took it. Didn't look at me. Didn't say thank you.

He crossed to Aylin. Pressed the locket into her hand. Closed her fingers around it.

"Here," he said softly. "It's yours. I'm sorry."

Aylin looked at the locket. Then at me.

She smiled.

Small. Private.

Jonathan helped her stand. Guided her toward the stairs.

"Let's go," he said. "I'll drive you."

They went downstairs together. I heard the front door open. Close.

The truck engine started. Tires on gravel.

Then silence.

I sat on the hallway floor. Blood drying on my face. My neck. My shirt.

The house was empty.

I pressed my hand to my temple. The cut was deep. Still bleeding.

I stood slowly. Walked to the bathroom. Looked in the mirror.

Blood streaked down the side of my face. Matted in my hair.

I ran the water. Washed the wound. It stung. I didn't flinch.

I found gauze in the cabinet. Medical tape. Bandaged it myself.

My hands were steady.

When I finished, I walked to the bedroom. Opened the dresser drawer.

The divorce papers were still there. Signed. Folded.

I took them out. Carried them downstairs.

Set them on the kitchen counter. Right in the center.

Beside them, I placed my house keys. The spare truck key. The mailbox key.

Everything.

Then I went back upstairs. Pulled my suitcase from the closet. The one I'd packed mentally three days ago.

I filled it methodically. Clothes. Shoes. Toiletries. My mother's photo album.

Nothing else.

I zipped it closed. Carried it downstairs.

The kitchen was dark. The papers sat on the counter. White against the dark granite.

I looked at them for a long moment.

Then I picked up my suitcase. Walked to the front door.

Opened it.

Stepped outside.

The night air was cool. The sky was black. No stars.

I pulled the door closed behind me.

Didn't lock it.

Didn't look back.

I walked to the end of the driveway. Turned left. Headed toward town.

The bus station was two miles away.

I walked the whole way.

My suitcase rolled behind me. The wheels hummed against the pavement.

My head throbbed. The bandage was damp.

I didn't stop.

At the station, I bought a ticket. Westbound. Albuquerque. Leaving in forty minutes.

I sat on a bench. Waited.

The station was nearly empty. A woman with a sleeping child. An old man reading a newspaper.

Nobody looked at me.

When they called my bus, I stood. Picked up my suitcase.

Boarded.

Found a seat near the back. Window side.

I sat down. Buckled in.

The bus pulled out of the station. Turned onto the highway.

I watched the town disappear behind me.

The lights. The houses. The life I'd built and lost and finally left.

I touched the bandage on my temple.

Then I closed my eyes.

And for the first time in eight years, I felt nothing but the road beneath me and the miles ahead.