After My Husband Chose the Mistress

Four years. One thousand four hundred and sixty days of marriage, and here I was, sitting alone at a table meant for two at Le Bernardin. The waiter approached for the third time, his sympathetic smile barely masking his pity.

"Would you like to order now, Mrs. Thomas, or wait a bit longer?"

I twisted my wedding ring, a nervous habit I'd developed over the years. "Just a few more minutes, please."

Around me, other couples clinked champagne flutes, leaned into intimate conversations, and shared bites of exquisite food across candlelit tables. Anniversary celebrations, proposals, birthdays—moments that mattered. I checked my phone again. No calls, no texts, nothing from Garrett for the past two hours.

I'd spent three hours getting ready for tonight—the Valentino dress he'd once said brought out the amber flecks in my eyes, the pearl earrings he'd given me on our first anniversary. Back when he still remembered our anniversaries. Back when I still mattered.

My phone vibrated against the white tablecloth. Finally. I snatched it up, relief washing through me until I read the message:

*Can't make dinner. Jennifer's gone missing. Need to help with search. Don't wait up.*

The text glowed on my screen, each word a tiny dagger. Jennifer. Of course. I set the phone down carefully, as if it might explode if handled too roughly. The sommelier approached with the bottle of Château Margaux 2009 I'd pre-ordered—Garrett's favorite.

"Mrs. Thomas, would you like to proceed with—"

A commotion near the bar interrupted him. Several patrons had gathered around the television mounted on the wall. The volume had been turned up, unusual for Le Bernardin's refined atmosphere.

"Breaking news," announced the reporter, her voice crisp with practiced concern. "Social media influencer Jennifer Lane has been found after being reported missing earlier today."

I rose from my chair, drawn toward the screen like a moth to flame. And there he was—my husband, his arm wrapped protectively around Jennifer's shoulders as cameras flashed around them. Her mascara-streaked face pressed against his chest, her hand clutching his tailored suit jacket.

"I was so scared," she sobbed into the microphone thrust toward her. "But Garrett never gave up looking for me."

My husband—my husband of four years, whose anniversary dinner I was attending alone—kissed the top of her head tenderly. "I would never stop searching for you," he murmured, loud enough for the microphones to catch.

The restaurant seemed to tilt beneath my feet. Several diners turned to look at me, recognition dawning in their eyes. Mrs. Thomas. The wife. The fool.

"Ma'am?" The sommelier's voice sounded distant. "Would you like me to open the wine?"

I gathered my clutch and wrap. "No, thank you. I'm leaving."

The drive home passed in a blur. I kept seeing Garrett's face, the tender way he'd looked at Jennifer—a look I hadn't received in years. By the time I reached our penthouse, my shock had crystallized into something harder, colder.

The elevator doors opened directly into our foyer. I stepped out,