When My Husband Called His Mistress His Muse

Two days later, my phone rang. It was an unknown Brooklyn number.

I picked it up outside the ICU.

“Fiona!” Patricia’s voice came through the speaker in a high, ragged shriek. “It’s Raymond! His heart gave out! He collapsed in the hallway, clutching his left arm. The paramedics said his heart stopped twice! He’s on his deathbed, Fiona. You have to come right now!”

I stood still under the fluorescent lights.

Medically, what she said made no sense. If his heart had stopped twice, he would be intubated in an emergency room, not lying on a sofa while she made casual phone calls.

“Which hospital is he at?” I asked.

“He’s at home!” she cried. “The doctors sent him home to rest. He wants to see you before it’s too late. Please, Fiona!”

A normal person would have hung up. But five years of duty don't vanish in two days. I grabbed my coat, took the elevator down, and got in my car.

I drove across the bridge to their Brooklyn townhouse. The house I paid the mortgage on.

I unlocked the front door and stepped into the entryway.

There was no medical equipment. No smell of rubbing alcohol. Just the scent of fresh cinnamon rolls and brewed coffee.

I walked into the living room.

Raymond was sitting upright on the leather sofa. His cheeks were pink. He had a mug in his hands and the Mets game on the television.

Kaden sat in a nearby armchair, staring at the floor with a wounded, brooding expression. Denver lounged on the love seat, scrolling her phone with long acrylic nails.

Patricia stood in the center of the room. The moment she saw me, her tears vanished. Her face hardened like wet cement.

It wasn't an emergency. It was an ambush.

“Look who decided to show up,” Patricia snapped. Her voice was sharp, without a trace of grief. “Your husband has been sitting here in misery for two days, Fiona. You threw him out like trash. What kind of wife does that?”

I didn't move. I felt my pulse slow down, steady and cold.

“You said Raymond was dying, Patricia.”

“I had to get you here!” she yelled, waving her hands. “You blocked Kaden’s number! You're a cold, heartless career woman. All you do is bury yourself in that hospital, while your husband starves for affection. You owe him an apology. You need to beg him to take you back.”

Denver didn't even look up from her screen. She gave a nasty little scoff.

“Honestly, Fiona, you always smell like bleach and sick people,” Denver said casually. “It’s gross. Can you really blame Kaden for needing some creative companionship? Samara is gorgeous. She actually has taste.”

Kaden said nothing. He just tightened his jaw, playing the martyr. He let his mother and sister fight his battles, just like he always did.

My chest didn't hurt. It felt completely clear.

I reached down and straightened the leather band of my Baume & Mercier watch. It gave a quiet click against my wrist.

“Is that all?” I asked.

Patricia blinked, startled by my tone. “Excuse me?”

“Do you mind if I use the television?” I asked.

Patricia frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“Just answer the question,” I said quietly. “Can I use the screen?”

“Go ahead,” Denver mocked. “What, are you going to show us pictures of open chests?”

I didn't answer. I pulled my thin laptop from my leather tote bag. I walked to the TV console, found the HDMI cable connected to their cable box, and plugged it into my port.

The Mets game vanished. The sixty-five-inch screen went black, then lit up with my presentation.

Bold white letters on a clean black background:

**FINANCIAL AUDIT: 2019–2024.**

The room went dead silent.

I tapped the spacebar.

“Slide one,” I said. My voice was smooth, the same voice I used to instruct residents during surgery. “Kaden’s SoHo studio. Rent, utilities, and renovations. Two hundred and sixteen thousand dollars.”

Kaden’s head snapped up.

I pressed the key again.

“Slide two. Gallery exhibition fees, framing, and imported oil paints. Ninety-four thousand dollars.”

Patricia opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

“Slide three. Mortgage support for this Brooklyn townhouse. Except the payments didn't go to the bank, did they, Patricia? You redirected them into a private brokerage account under your own name. One hundred and eighty-five thousand dollars.”

Patricia’s face drained of all its color. Raymond looked over at his wife, his mouth falling open.

“Slide four,” I continued. “Denver’s full tuition at NYU. Plus forty thousand dollars for a study-abroad semester in Florence that she never attended. You took a trip to Ibiza with your friends instead, Denver. Total: one hundred and twenty-seven thousand dollars.”

Denver dropped her phone onto her lap. She stared at the screen, her lips parting in shock.

“Slide five. Patricia’s cosmetic procedures, fillers, and two full kitchen remodels. Eighty-six thousand dollars. Slide six. Kaden’s vintage Rolex and lease payments on the Porsche. Seventy-two thousand dollars.”

I tapped the key one last time.

A large number appeared in bright red.

**TOTAL: $780,000.**

Beside the number was a split image. On the left: the Cartier receipt for seventy-two thousand dollars, charged to my black card three days ago. On the right: high-resolution screenshots of Kaden’s texts to Samara Woods.

*‘She’s just an ATM, baby. You’re my real art. I can’t wait to put this necklace on you tonight.’*

The silence in the room was suffocating. You could hear the hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen.

Raymond stared at his son with wide, horrified eyes. Patricia’s hands were shaking violently. Denver looked like she wanted to crawl under the sofa cushions.

Kaden sat frozen. His face was gray.

I unplugged the cable from my laptop. The TV screen went dark.

I closed the lid with a clean, sharp snap.

“I hired a forensic accountant yesterday,” I said evenly. “My lawyer has already drafted the petition. I am filing for divorce. And I will be suing for full restitution of every single dollar.”

I slipped the laptop back into my bag.

“Fiona, wait!” Patricia finally found her voice. It came out as a desperate, cracked screech. “You can’t do this! We’re family! You gave that money willingly! You can’t take it back!”

“Try me,” I said.

I turned around and walked toward the front door.

Behind me, the house exploded into absolute chaos. Patricia was screaming at Raymond. Denver started sobbing, yelling at her mother about the bank account.

Just as my hand touched the brass doorknob, a voice cut through the noise.

“Fiona?”

It was Kaden.

His voice was thin, trembling, and utterly disbelieving. It was the sound of a man who had never been told no in his entire life.

I didn't turn around. I didn't pause.

I opened the door, stepped out into the crisp autumn air, and pulled it shut behind me.