My Husband Chose His Mistress Over Saving My Life

Five years. Five long years of playing the perfect wife, of hiding who I really am, of loving a man who sees me as nothing more than a business transaction.

I stood in our dining room, adjusting the crystal wine glasses for the third time. The table was set with our finest china—the set Alexander had never once used. The candles cast a warm glow across the room, flickering shadows against the walls of the Burke estate.

"Mrs. Burke?" Our housekeeper appeared in the doorway. "Is there anything else you need?"

"No, thank you, Maria." I smoothed my dress—a deep burgundy that complemented my olive skin. "He should be home any minute."

She nodded and disappeared, though I caught the pity in her eyes. She knew, as did the rest of the staff, that anniversaries meant nothing to Alexander.

I checked my watch. Seven-thirty. He'd promised to be home by six.

The salmon would be dry by now. The chocolate soufflé had likely collapsed. I'd spent hours preparing this meal, rehearsing what I would say when I finally revealed my true identity.

"Alexander," I practiced again, my voice barely above a whisper. "The Clause of Independence is complete. I've lived without my family's wealth for five years, just as our agreement required. It's time you knew who I really am—Adriana Sanchez, heir to the Sanchez banking dynasty."

I touched the small velvet box in my pocket containing the family signet ring—the one piece of Sanchez jewelry I'd kept throughout these years of pretended poverty.

Eight o'clock came and went. Then nine. Then ten.

I sat alone at the head of the table, watching the candles burn down to stubs. The food had gone cold, the wine warm in its decanter. Outside, rain began to fall, pattering against the windows like impatient fingers.

Midnight struck. Still no Alexander.

I finally stood, my legs stiff from sitting so long. As I cleared the table, each plate clattered against the others like accusations. Five years of anniversary celebrations—all alone.

---

Three days passed without a word from Alexander. No calls. No messages. Nothing.

When he finally walked through the door, I was in the library, pretending to read. He looked tired but composed, his suit immaculate as always.

"We need to talk," he said without preamble, loosening his tie.

I set my book aside. "Yes, we do. It's been our anniversary for three days now."

He frowned slightly, as if trying to recall some distant obligation. "That's not what I want to discuss."

"What, then?"

"I've met someone." His voice was matter-of-fact, as if announcing a new business acquisition. "Her name is Abby Davis."

Something cold settled in my stomach. "What does that have to do with us?"

"She reminds me of Alia." His eyes, usually so guarded, softened at the mention of his dead first love. "The way she moves, her smile... even her voice."

"And?"

"And I want to renegotiate our arrangement." He sat across from me, crossing one leg over