Spare Part Wife: Liver For His Mistress

Jada Ryan adjusted the thin strap of her emerald silk dress, her fingers lingering on the cool fabric where it met the flushed skin of her shoulder. Her heart was beating a frantic, uneven rhythm against her ribs, a physical hammering that made her breath hitch in her throat. This was Per Se. This was their third anniversary. And for the first time in months, Darius Long was actually sitting across from her, not staring at a screen, not taking a call, but here. Physically here.

The private dining room smelled of expensive beeswax candles and the faint, mineral tang of the Hudson River drifting up from the city below. It was a scent that usually signaled romance, or at least the expensive performance of it.

"The vintage Dom Pérignon, sir?" the waiter asked, his voice a hushed reverence as he presented the bottle like a holy relic.

Jada smiled, the expression feeling tight and fragile on her face. She reached for the stem of her crystal flute, anticipation buzzing in her fingertips.

Darius didn't smile. He didn't even look at the bottle. He covered the rim of his glass with a hand that looked carved from marble-cold, pale, and immovable.

"No," Darius said. His voice was low, devoid of the warmth that used to make Jada's toes curl. "We won't be celebrating."

The waiter froze, his professional mask slipping for a fraction of a second before he bowed and retreated, taking the bubbles and the hope with him.

Silence descended. It wasn't a peaceful silence; it was heavy, suffocating, the kind of silence that pressed against your eardrums until they popped. Jada swallowed hard, her throat dry. She reached across the pristine white tablecloth, her hand trembling slightly as she sought his. She just wanted contact. She wanted proof that the man she married was still inside this suit of armor.

Her fingertips grazed his knuckles.

Darius pulled his hand away sharply, as if she were an open flame.

The rejection stung more than a slap. Jada retracted her hand, curling it into a fist in her lap to hide the shaking.

"Darius?" she whispered. "What is it? Is it the company? Is it-"

The heavy oak doors of the private room swung open. It wasn't the sommelier. It wasn't the first course of oysters and pearls.

It was Harrison, Darius's personal assistant, followed closely by a man Jada didn't recognize. The stranger wore a suit that cost more than her college tuition and carried a leather briefcase that looked heavy enough to contain a body.

They didn't apologize for the intrusion. Harrison didn't even make eye contact with her. The stranger walked to the table and placed a thick, bound document right in the center, displacing the delicate floral arrangement of white orchids. The vase wobbled, water sloshing over the rim onto the linen, darkening the fabric like a spreading bruise.

Jada let out a nervous, breathless laugh. It sounded tinny in the large room. "Okay. This is...