After My Husband’s Paris Affair, I Chose His Brother

It was an ordinary Tuesday evening in Manhattan. Rain tapped against the floor-to-ceiling windows of our penthouse. The city lights blurred outside. Buster, my golden retriever, slept heavily across my feet.

Zachary was in Paris. He told me he had a crucial tech summit. I believed him.

I sat on our velvet couch and scrolled through Instagram. A tagged photo popped up on my feed. My thumb stopped. My breath hitched.

It was Zachary. And next to him was Isabela Fox.

They were at a candlelit bistro. The lighting was warm and intimate. Isabela wore a red silk dress. Her delicate, manicured hand rested right on Zachary’s forearm. He was looking at her. It wasn't a business look. It was the look he never gave me.

My hands shook a little. I clicked on Isabela’s profile. She had posted a new story. It was a short video of the Eiffel Tower sparkling at dusk. I looked at the top of the screen. The geotag read: *Four Seasons Hotel George V*.

Zachary’s hotel.

For seven years, I swallowed my doubts. I ignored the whispers. I pushed down the sick feeling that I was just a stand-in. Isabela was his first love. His high school sweetheart. His untouchable "white moonlight." I always knew her ghost haunted our relationship. But seeing her hand on his arm in Paris? The ghost was real.

Something inside my chest snapped. It didn't hurt. It just turned to ash. I didn't cry. I didn't throw my phone. I just felt a cold, hard clarity.

My screen lit up. It was an incoming call from Zachary.

I swiped to answer. I brought the phone to my ear.

"Hey," Zachary said. His voice was casual. Distracted. I could hear the faint clinking of wine glasses in the background. "Just checking in. It's late here."

"We’re done, Zachary," I said.

My voice was completely flat. Toneless.

He let out a short, dismissive laugh. "Alina, please. Stop being dramatic. I'm tired and I have early meetings."

"I'm not being dramatic. We are over."

"I don't have time for this," he sighed. His tone was annoyed. Arrogant. "I'll call you tomorrow when you calm down."

I didn't argue. I pulled the phone away and hung up.

I stood up. Buster woke up and whined. He knew something was wrong. "Come on, boy," I whispered. "We're leaving."

I walked into the massive walk-in closet. I grabbed my old suitcase. I moved methodically. I didn't take the Chanel suits Zachary bought me. I didn't take the Hermes bags. I only packed my basic clothes. My worn-out sweaters. My favorite jeans. My books. I packed Buster’s bowls and his leash.

Then, I walked over to my vanity. I opened the velvet jewelry box. I took out the diamond tennis bracelet. The pearl drop earrings. The sapphire pendant he gave me for our five-year anniversary.

I walked to the kitchen. The marble island was cold under my fingertips. I placed the jewelry down. I lined each