When My Husband’s Protégé Took My Place in His Life

The rain drummed against the windows of Vibe, the trendy downtown lounge where I sat across from Siena, watching her expertly stir her mojito. Friday nights used to be sacred for Damien and me. Now they were just another evening of disappointment wrapped in excuses.

"He's on call again," I said, my voice barely audible over the ambient music. "Third time this month."

Siena rolled her eyes. "You know how hospitals are. Emergencies don't care about your social calendar."

I nodded, but the knot in my stomach tightened. Something wasn't right. It hadn't been right for months.

"Anyway," Siena continued, "I'm drowning in quarterly reports. You wouldn't believe the numbers from the Westlake account—"

I tuned out as I reached into my purse and pulled out my travel deck. The cards were worn smooth from years of use—for others. I rarely read for myself.

"Mira, not the cards again." Siena sighed. "You're a professional. Save it for paying customers."

But I couldn't stop myself. Not tonight.

Under the dim table lights, I shuffled the cards with practiced hands. The familiar weight of them grounded me as I formed my question—the same one I'd been asking for weeks.

"Is his heart still with me?"

I drew three cards and laid them face-up on the table between us.

The Three of Swords. The Seven of Swords. The Tower.

My breath caught. Unlike the ambiguous readings before—the ones that left room for hope—these cards screamed their message. Betrayal. Deception. Destruction.

"Well?" Siena prompted, peering at the cardstock. "What does it say?"

"Nothing," I lied, quickly gathering the cards. "Just cardstock."

But the chill that ran through me had nothing to do with the lounge's aggressive air conditioning.

---

The condo was dark when I returned home just after eleven. I kicked off my heels and padded to the kitchen, pouring myself a glass of wine that I didn't really want.

Damien's key turned in the lock just as I was taking my first sip.

"You're home," he said, his voice neutral as he shrugged off his raincoat.

"Obviously." I didn't turn around.

He moved past me, bringing the scent of rain and hospital antiseptic. "Crazy night. We had a code blue in ICU. Pediatric patient. Didn't think we were going to bring him back."

"That must have been around seven," I said carefully. "When you texted that you'd be home by eight."

He paused. "There were complications. Then paperwork."

His phone buzzed on the nightstand as he disappeared into the bathroom. I stared at it, lying face-down like always.

When it buzzed again, I saw the preview:

"Rosie (Intern): Thanks for listening tonight. You're the only one who gets it. 🌧️☕"

Something snapped inside me. Before I could think better of it, I picked up his phone and unlocked it. (He'd never changed his passcode—my birthday—convinced I'd forgotten it years ago.)

There were no explicit messages. No sexual texts. Just hundreds of exchanges with Rosie Carpenter, timestamped during hours when he claimed to