When My Husband Saved His Mistress Instead of Me

The cold. It was the cold that I remembered most.

Two years later, I could still feel it—that bone-deep, soul-crushing chill that had nearly claimed my life in the freezing waters off Seattle's coast. The storm had come without warning, turning what should have been a celebration aboard the Crawford family yacht into a nightmare.

"Kinsley!" Paxton's voice had cut through the howling wind as the yacht pitched violently. "Hold on!"

I'd reached for him, my fingers numb, my body heavy with the weight of my sodden clothes. The waves crashed over us, and I screamed as I slipped, my hand grasping desperately for something—anything—to keep me from being swept away.

"There's only one left!" Paxton shouted over the storm, his face a mask of what looked like concern as he clutched the last life vest. "I'll come back for you!"

I believed him. God help me, I believed him.

"Take it," he said, extending the vest toward me. "We'll get through this together."

But then Sierra appeared beside him, her perfect hair plastered to her face, her designer dress clinging to her trembling body. She reached for him with manicured hands, her eyes wide with terror.

"Paxton," she whimpered. "Please..."

I watched in disbelief as he turned away from me, placing the vest around Sierra's shoulders instead. His eyes met mine for just a moment—a flicker of something that might have been regret, or perhaps just annoyance at being inconvenienced.

"I have to save her first," he said, his voice suddenly cold. "She needs me more."

The waves crashed over me again as Sierra clung to him, her lips brushing his ear. "You made the right choice," she whispered, just loud enough for me to hear.

I sank beneath the waves, my heart shattering more completely than any bone could break. The icy water closed over my head as darkness swallowed me whole.

* * *

Two years later, my hands moved deftly through the fishing net, fingers weaving in and out with practiced precision. The sun warmed my skin as I sat on the weathered porch of our cottage, the scent of salt and sea air filling my lungs.

"Almost done?" Leif's voice came from behind me, deep and warm like honey over gravel.

I smiled without looking up. "Just a few more knots."

His shadow fell across the porch as he stepped beside me, his weathered hands gently taking mine. "You're getting too good at this. Thomas says you're out-fishing half the men in the harbor now."

"Is that a complaint?" I raised an eyebrow, finally meeting his gaze.

Leif Silva—my husband, my savior, my everything—shook his head, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Just pride. My wife, the fisherman's daughter."

I leaned into him, feeling the solid warmth of his chest against my cheek. How far I'd come from that freezing ocean. From the woman who'd nearly died, both literally and figuratively.

"You okay?" he asked, always attuned to my moods. "You've been quiet today."

"Just