After My Groom Chose His Pregnant Mistress Over Me

The diamond on my finger was modest—a cloudy, quarter-carat chip set in thin gold that had probably turned Tristan’s finger green when he bought it. I twisted it around my knuckle, the metal biting into my skin. It was the only piece of jewelry I wore that wasn't insured for six figures, and yet, it was the only one that had ever made my heart race.

"Norah, babe, have you seen my good cufflinks?" Tristan’s voice drifted from the bathroom of our cramped Queens apartment, tight with the specific brand of anxiety he reserved for days when he had to impress people.

I stood by the window, looking out at the gray, peeling siding of the neighbor's house. A police siren wailed two streets over, a familiar lullaby in this neighborhood. "Check the top drawer," I called back, my voice steady despite the drum solo happening in my chest. "Behind the socks."

Today was the day. The engagement party. The day I would finally stop lying.

For three years, I had played the role of Norah the struggling artist, the girl who clipped coupons and mended Tristan’s work shirts. I had watched him sweat over utility bills while I sat on a trust fund that could buy the utility company. It had been necessary. My father, Michael Lane, saw wolves in every shadow, and he’d warned me that men like Tristan only loved the reflection of their own greed in a woman’s eyes. I had to prove him wrong.

My phone buzzed on the laminate counter. A text from *Dad*.

*Are you sure about this, Norah? The background check on the Fox boy hasn’t changed. He’s a climber. You’re the ladder.*

I felt a flash of defensive heat prickle my neck. I typed back quickly, attaching a selfie of Tristan and me from last week, his arm slung possessively around my shoulders. *He loves ME, Dad. Not the money. He doesn't even know about the money yet. Today is the start of everything good.*

I set the phone down just as Tristan emerged. He looked handsome in the suit I’d secretly bought him—telling him I found it at a thrift store when it was actually Italian wool from a boutique in SoHo. He was adjusting his collar, his jaw set in a hard line.

"You ready?" he asked, not looking at me. He was looking at his reflection in the hallway mirror, practicing a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Tristan," I said softly, stepping into his line of sight. I reached out to straighten his tie. "I have a surprise for you later. A wedding gift. I think… I think it’s going to change our lives."

He swatted my hand away—gently, but with enough force that I flinched. "Not now, Norah. I’m focused. My cousin said there might be some real players at the hall today. I need to be sharp, not distracted by whatever sentimental painting you made me."

He checked his phone, shielding the screen. I