Moved Out For His Mistress

The silk dress felt like armor against my skin as I smoothed it one final time, checking my reflection in the hallway mirror. Three years. Three years of marriage deserved more than the usual routine, more than another evening of Caspian coming home late with barely a glance in my direction.

The dining room glowed with soft candlelight, the table set with our wedding china that hadn't seen daylight since our first anniversary. I'd spent hours preparing his favorite meal—herb-crusted lamb with rosemary potatoes, the same dish from our honeymoon in Tuscany. The wine I'd chosen was a vintage Bordeaux, something special I'd been saving for tonight.

My fingers traced the delicate necklace at my throat, a wedding gift from Caspian that I rarely wore anymore. Tonight felt different, though. Tonight, I wanted to remind him of who we used to be, of the woman he'd once promised to love forever.

The sound of the front door opening sent a flutter through my chest. Finally. I checked the time—only twenty minutes late, which was practically early for him these days.

"Caspian?" I called out, smoothing my dress once more as I walked toward the foyer. "Dinner's ready, I thought we could—"

The words died in my throat.

He wasn't alone.

Vivienne stood beside him, her perfectly manicured hand resting on his arm with casual intimacy. She looked radiant in a cream-colored blazer that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe, her blonde hair cascading in waves that seemed to catch every bit of light in the room.

"Thessaly," Caspian said, his tone flat and businesslike. "I didn't expect you to still be up."

Still be up? It was barely eight o'clock, and it was our anniversary. The words I wanted to say caught in my throat as I watched Vivienne's lips curve into what might have been a smile if it had reached her eyes.

"Oh, how lovely," Vivienne purred, taking in the candlelit dining room visible behind me. "Did you prepare all this yourself, Thessaly? How... domestic."

The way she said it made domesticity sound like a disease.

"I thought we might have dinner together," I managed, my voice steadier than I felt. "It's our anniversary."

Caspian's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "Right. Well, Vivienne and I have been working late on the Morrison acquisition. We grabbed something at the office."

Working late. At eight o'clock. On our anniversary.

"Of course," I said quietly. "I should have called first."

"Don't be silly," Vivienne interjected, stepping further into our home—my home—as if she belonged there. "I'm sure it's delicious. You know, I'm absolutely parched. Could I trouble you for some wine?"

She was already moving toward the dining room, and I found myself following like a servant in my own house. Caspian trailed behind us, loosening his tie with the casual indifference of a man who'd forgotten what day it was.

"This is lovely," Vivienne said, settling into what had always been Caspian's chair at the head of the table. "You