My Husband Told Me to Apologize to His Pregnant Mistress

I barely slept that night. The tiny blue booties lay on my nightstand like a cruel joke, their cheerful color mocking the tears that had soaked my pillow. When morning came, I dragged myself to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face and trying to compose myself. The woman in the mirror looked hollow-eyed and pale—a stranger wearing my skin.

The doorbell rang at precisely nine o'clock. I opened it to find Eleanor Anderson standing in the hallway, her silver hair perfectly coiffed and her expression as cold as winter rain.

"Eleanor," I managed, stepping aside to let her in. "I wasn't expecting you."

She swept past me without meeting my eyes, her designer heels clicking against the marble floor. "I need to inspect the premises," she announced, setting her handbag on the entry table with deliberate precision.

"Inspect?" I repeated, following her as she moved through our penthouse with the critical eye of a property appraiser.

"Yes." She ran a manicured finger along the windowsill, checking for dust. "Dalia will be spending more time here. I need to ensure everything is... appropriate."

My stomach clenched. "Dalia is coming here? To our home?"

Eleanor turned to face me, her expression impatient. "Adeline, surely you understand that things have changed. Vincenzo is walking now. He doesn't need a caretaker wife anymore."

The words hit like physical blows. Ten years of devotion reduced to "caretaker wife."

"This is still my home," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

"For now." Eleanor's gaze swept over me dismissively. "But you must be realistic. Dalia is carrying the Anderson heir. Your... services are no longer required in the same capacity."

She moved to the guest bedroom, pushing open the door and nodding approvingly at the neutral décor. "This will do nicely for Dalia's visits. The light is good for her complexion."

I stood frozen in the doorway, watching as she rearranged pillows and adjusted curtains as if I weren't there.

"What do you suggest I do?" I finally asked, hating the tremor in my voice.

Eleanor turned, her expression almost pitying. "You have two options, dear. Either accept a more... appropriate position within this household, or prepare for a quiet divorce. Vincenzo prefers the former, but he's prepared for either."

---

That evening, Vincenzo informed me we would be hosting a private dinner. "Dalia is coming at seven," he said, not looking up from his tablet. "Make sure everything is perfect."

I spent the afternoon cooking—roasted salmon with lemon butter, Dalia's favorite, according to Vincenzo's instructions. I set the table with our finest china and crystal, arranging flowers in the centerpiece with shaking hands.

When the doorbell rang, I smoothed down my simple black dress and opened the door to find Dalia standing there, radiant in a cream cashmere sweater that highlighted her perfect complexion.

"Adeline," she smiled, stepping past me without waiting for an invitation. "How lovely to see you again."

Vincenzo emerged from his study, his face lighting up at the sight of her. "Dalia, you look beautiful."

Eleanor arrived moments later, and I found myself relegated to the kitchen as they settled in the living room. Through the open doorway, I could see them laughing and chatting as if I didn't exist.

"Adeline," Vincenzo called sharply. "Dalia needs more pillows for her back. The doctor says she must be comfortable."

I brought the pillows, my hands trembling slightly as I arranged them behind Dalia's back.

"Thank you," she said sweetly, then turned to Vincenzo. "She's so helpful, isn't she?"

The dinner proceeded like a carefully orchestrated performance. I served each course, then retreated to the kitchen to prepare the next, listening to their animated conversation from the dining room.

"Adeline," Eleanor's voice cut through my thoughts as I stood at the sink. "We need fresh water for Dalia. In her condition, hydration is essential."

I filled the crystal carafe and returned to find them discussing nursery colors.

"The east wing would make a perfect nursery," Eleanor was saying. "Morning light, and the views of Central Park are divine."

---

Three days later, Vincenzo informed me that we would be attending the annual Anderson Foundation Gala.

"I've arranged everything," he said, his tone businesslike. "Dalia will be there as my special guest."

I nodded numbly, already knowing what would come next.

"You should wear something... appropriate," he continued, not meeting my eyes. "Perhaps the navy dress from last year?"

Later that evening, a delivery arrived—a garment bag containing a stunning emerald gown with Dalia's name embroidered on the label.

"Vincenzo," I called, holding up the tag. "This is—"

"For Dalia," he interrupted, taking the bag from my hands. "The color will complement her eyes perfectly."

I stood in our closet, staring at the modest navy dress he'd selected for me—simple, forgettable, designed to blend into the background while Dalia shimmered in the spotlight.

"Is this really necessary?" I asked, my voice barely audible.

He turned to me, his expression unreadable. "You understand how important appearances are, Adeline. I need you to be... unobtrusive."

Unobtrusive. Invisible. Disposable.

As he walked away, I caught my reflection in the mirror—a ghost in navy blue, already fading from his world.