My Husband Wanted Me to Raise His Mistress’s Baby

The drive to rural Virginia took four hours. The morning sky was gray and cold, and dead oak leaves scratched across the road like dry bones.

I checked my makeup in the rearview mirror. I wore a simple cream sweater and no flashy jewelry. I run a company worth nine figures, but today, I didn't want to look like a CEO. I just wanted to be Fabian's wife.

In five years of marriage, this was my first Thanksgiving with his family. Between closing acquisitions and expanding our board, I had never made the time. I felt guilty about that. So I had loaded the trunk with gifts: top-shelf bourbon, imported cashmere throws, and a custom hamper of French delicacies. I really wanted this to work.

Fabian parked in the gravel driveway of a small, neat house with peeling porch paint. He turned to me, his smile wide and warm.

"They're going to love you, Margot," he said. He reached over and squeezed my hand. His palms were clammy.

His mother, Regina, answered the door. She wore a floral apron and held a wooden spoon. Her eyes flicked from my face down to my boots, taking in every seam in half a second.

"Margot," she said. Her smile was tight, barely moving her cheeks. "You finally made it."

"Happy Thanksgiving, Regina," I said, stepping inside. I handed her the heavy gift basket wrapped in silk ribbon. "A little something for the house."

Regina took it with two hands. She didn't open the card. Instead, she set it on the entryway console and immediately turned the basket around, hiding the gold French branding against the wall.

"We don't need fancy things here," she said quietly. "Just good, honest folks."

I blinked, but swallowed the sting. "Of course."

By two in the afternoon, the small living room was packed with aunts, uncles, and cousins. The air smelled of roasting turkey and stale clove cigarettes.

I stayed close to Fabian, but he was strange. He kept laughing too loud at jokes that weren't funny. When his cousin Sarah walked over to say hello, Fabian neatly stepped between us, took my elbow, and steered me toward the kitchen.

While he talked to his uncle about football, his left hand went to the back of his neck. He rubbed the skin there in a slow, rhythmic circle.

He always did that when he lied.

I touched his arm when we were alone by the punch bowl. "Fabian? Are you alright? You seem jumpy."

He flinched slightly, then dropped his hand from his neck. He gave me that soft, placating look I had fallen in love with five years ago.

"I'm just happy you're here," he whispered, kissing my temple. "You're overthinking it, Margot. Just relax and enjoy the day."

His voice was like warm water. It smoothed over the rough edges of my worry. I told myself he was just nervous about his working-class family meeting his wealthy wife. I took a breath and let it go.

At three, the front door clicked open.

A draft of freezing air swept into the foyer, followed by a woman's bright laugh.

She stepped inside, kicking off her boots to reveal bare ankles and red-painted toenails. She wore a tight, emerald-green silk wrap dress. It was low-cut, flashy, and completely wrong for a family turkey dinner in the country. In her hands, she carried a freshly baked pecan pie.

"Sorry I'm late, everyone!" she called out.

Regina dropped her dish towel and hurried across the room in four brisk steps. Her face broke into the first genuine smile I had seen all day. She wrapped the woman in a tight, rocking hug.

"Destiny, sweetheart!" Regina cried, loud enough for the whole room to hear. "You made it! Oh, you're practically family!"

I looked at Fabian.

He was holding a glass of apple cider. He froze mid-sentence, his mouth slightly open. The color drained out of his cheeks, leaving him pasty under the yellow hallway light.

I watched his eyes. He didn't look shocked. He looked braced.

He knew she was coming.

I filed that away in the back of my mind. A cold, quiet knot formed in my stomach.

Twenty minutes later, we sat down at the long dining table.

Destiny took the chair directly across from me. She had huge, dark eyes and thick, glossy hair that fell over one shoulder. Up close, I could smell her perfume—heavy vanilla and musk.

Regina carved the turkey and handed the first plate to Destiny, not me. Fabian sat on my right, his head ducked low over his cranberry sauce.

Destiny picked up her wine glass, her gaze drifting lazily to me.

"It's so wonderful to finally meet the famous Margot Greene," she said. Her voice was sweet, almost melodic. "Fabian talks about you constantly. Well... about your work, anyway."

"Does he?" I kept my tone flat and even.

"Oh, all the time," she purred. She leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. She looked sideways at Fabian, who refused to lift his eyes from his plate. "You know, seeing him sitting there reminds me of high school. Fabian always does this little twitch with his fingers when he's truly relaxed around someone. It's so cute."

She looked back at me, tilting her head.

"You know the one I mean, don't you, Margot?"

The table fell dead silent. A fork scraped against ceramic. Someone let out an awkward, nervous cough.

It wasn't a friendly memory. It was a knife. She was testing the blade against my throat to see if I would bleed in front of his family.

Under the tablecloth, my left hand tightened into a fist around my cloth napkin. With my right hand, my fingers gripped the silver fork so hard the metal bit into my palm. My knuckles turned stark, bloodless white.

I turned my head and looked directly at my husband.

Fabian didn't look at Destiny. He didn't look at his mother. He stared straight down at his plate, watched the gravy congeal against the meat, and muttered under his breath:

"Margot. Please. Just let it go."