The knot in my stomach had been my constant companion for weeks, a tight, cold coil of dread that made every breath feel shallow. That night, our silver anniversary eve, it tightened its grip as I lay perfectly still in the dark, listening to the hushed, excited whispers from behind our bedroom door. Darren was on the phone again, at three in the morning. His voice, a low murmur from the hallway, carried a strange, eager energy that felt utterly alien in the stillness of our home.
We have to do this right, I heard him insist. She won’t suspect a thing. A pause, then, Of course not, son, came the tinny, familiar reply of his mother, Celeste. My body went rigid against the sheets. What were they plotting in the dead of night? And why now, on the cusp of twenty-five years together? The old hardwood floor let out a soft groan as Darren padded back into the room. I snapped my eyes shut, feigning the deep, even breaths of sleep. He slipped into bed with exaggerated care, but I could feel the tense, restless energy radiating from his body, a stark contrast to my own frozen stillness.
The next morning, the air in our Georgetown condo was thick with a false, cloying sweetness. Darren was unnaturally affectionate, a performance that felt as brittle as cheap glass. “Naomi, my love,” he crooned, planting a kiss on my cheek that felt more like a brand. He smelled of an expensive, unfamiliar cologne. “How about we choose the restaurant for our anniversary today? I want everything to be perfect for us.”
“Perfect?” I raised an eyebrow, the word tasting like ash in my mouth. In a quarter of a century of marriage, Darren had never shown a flicker of interest in planning a family celebration. That had always been my domain, my labor of love that he would only later critique and find fault with.
“Fine,” I replied, my voice carefully neutral as I watched him rush to get ready for work. His cell phone, forgotten in his strange haste, lay on the nightstand. The screen lit up with a silent notification. I couldn’t help myself; I leaned over. It was a calendar reminder. Call S at 11 a.m.
“Hey, D,” I asked, forcing a casual tone as I watered the philodendrons on the windowsill. “Who’s the ‘S’ in your contacts? Someone new at the office?”
He spun around so abruptly he nearly lost his balance. For a single, unguarded second, pure panic flashed in his eyes before he smoothed his features into a mask of calm. “Ah, that’s Sanchez. A new colleague from the Seattle branch. Just need to consult him on a tedious work issue, that’s all.”
It was a lie. I knew my husband like the familiar lines of my own palm. When he lied, a tiny, almost imperceptible twitch would dance under his left eye. It was twitching now, a frantic little pulse betraying his cool words…
“I see,” I replied with a thin smile, my chest tightening into a hard, cold fist deep inside. Once the door clicked shut behind him, I stood by the window, gazing out at the gray, oppressive October sky hanging over Georgetown. Twenty-five years. A whole quarter of a century. We met in college; I was the studious accounting major, and he was the ambitious, up-and-coming manager. We married for love, full of dreams about children and a loud, chaotic family life. But the children never came. The doctors could find nothing wrong, yet the miracle we prayed for never happened. Darren took it hard, his disappointment growing with every passive-aggressive comment his mother, Celeste, made about her missing grandchildren. Over time, we learned to paper over the silence, focusing on the positives—more time for our careers, for travel, for ourselves. But something fundamental had shifted between us, a vital connection that had quietly frayed and snapped without either of us acknowledging it aloud.
A sharp, precise knock at the door pulled me from the quicksand of my memories. Standing on the welcome mat was Celeste Price herself, her smile as frigid and polished as ever. “Naomi, dear,” she said, sweeping past me into the condo without waiting for an invitation. “How are you holding up? Are you preparing for the big party?” In twenty-five years, Celeste had always treated me with this exaggerated, formal courtesy, a constant, polite distance that never warmed. She had never, not once, called me her daughter.
“Slowly but surely,” I replied, leading her to the living room. “Darren actually wants to celebrate at a restaurant this year.”
“Very good,” she responded, her voice bright and brittle. “A respectable venue, with all the guests. Doing everything at home just doesn’t show the proper weight of the occasion, does it?” Her eyes began to roam around the living room, critically evaluating every bookshelf and lampshade. I knew that look intimately. It always managed to make me feel, without a single word of criticism being spoken, that her sprawling suburban mansion was infinitely larger and more tastefully decorated.
“By the way, Naomi dear,” Celeste said, settling herself into my favorite armchair as if holding court. “I’ve been thinking about the future. Darren isn’t so young anymore. He’s fifty-three. And, well, with no grandchildren on the horizon…” She let the sentence hang in the air before continuing. “Don’t you think it would be a good idea to write a will? For the grandchildren, just in case?”
A cold dread trickled down my spine. “What grandchildren, Celeste? We don’t have any children.”
“Well, for my nephews, of course,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “I have two nephews, good boys, studying, working hard. If we don’t plan ahead, the government will just take everything in the end.”
I slowly, deliberately, placed my teacup on the table, the gentle clink sounding like a gunshot in the tense silence.
“And where do you keep the condo papers, by the way?” Celeste asked suddenly, her tone dripping with casual afterthought. “I’m just thinking of the boys’ future. The nephews, the young people. They need a leg up.”
And there it was. The subtext, now spoken aloud. The late-night call, Darren’s bizarre affection, and now his mother’s pointed questions about the deed to my home. The pieces of the puzzle were clicking together, one by one, and the picture they formed was making me feel physically ill.
“They’re in the safe,” I replied, my voice dry and flat. “But why do you ask?”
“Oh, just in case. You never know what might happen in life. It’s always good to know where the important things are, don’t you think?”
When she finally left, the silence she left behind was deafening. I sat alone, piecing it all together. The puzzle was forming, and I hated the image that was emerging. I went to Darren’s home office and sat before his computer. He had never been one for complex passwords; for years, it had been the simple date we met. But when I typed it in, the screen shook in denial. My heart hammered against my ribs. In twenty-five years, he had never kept a secret from me, not like this. I tried his birthday. Nothing. I tried his mother’s birthday. No. Then, a dark thought occurred to me. I tried our wedding date, but typed in reverse. The screen unlocked, the browser history opening up like a confession. What I saw tied my stomach into a hard, nauseated knot. How to divorce when shared assets exist. Spousal rights and property division. Legal advice for separation. Page after page, he had searched for this over the past two weeks. With trembling fingers, I scrolled further. How to keep the condo in a divorce. Legal tricks for dividing assets.
Suddenly, my phone rang, the shrill sound making me jump. It was my old friend, Candace. “Naomi, you are not going to believe what I just saw. It’s Darren. I saw him at that fancy jeweler’s in Tyson’s Galleria, the one with the diamond rings in the window. He was with a young woman. They were looking at rings, Naomi. And she was clinging to his arm, hugging him like it was the most natural thing in the world.”
“What did she look like?” I interrupted, my voice barely a whisper.
“About thirty, I’d say. Blonde, very put together, wearing a coat that probably cost more than my monthly mortgage. Pretty, in a sharp, superficial kind of way. And they were so… public with their affection. Are you okay, Naomi?”
“Yes,” I lied, the word feeling like sand in my throat. “Everything’s fine.”..
But nothing was fine. That evening, Darren returned home with a lavish bouquet of blood-red roses and a box of expensive, imported chocolates. “For my one and only true love,” he declared with a confidence that turned my stomach, leaning in to kiss my lips. One and only. The irony was a physical pain.
I looked him straight in the eye, refusing to flinch. “We need to talk. Seriously. About our future.”
I saw him tense, a subtle tightening across his shoulders, but he covered it instantly. “Talk about what?” he asked, clicking on the television, pretending to be absorbed by the flickering images. “Everything’s fine, right? The anniversary is in one week. All our friends will be there. Let’s not spoil the mood with serious topics. We’ll talk after the party, okay?”
After the party. The words hung between us, heavy with unspoken meaning. That meant something was planned for the party itself, something he didn’t want to jeopardize. I nodded, feigning acceptance, but an icy coldness was spreading through my veins. After twenty-five years, I knew this man. He was preparing something, coldly and methodically, and he had enlisted his mother and, I was sure, a lawyer in his scheme. What Darren didn’t know was that I had an ace up my sleeve, a secret that could unravel his entire carefully constructed plan. And for now, I wasn’t going to tell him a single thing.
The next day, I woke with that same knot in my stomach, a constant, aching reminder of the betrayal that was now my reality. Darren left early without even touching the coffee I’d made. “I have a meeting,” he tossed over his shoulder on his way out.
A meeting, I thought, the bitterness rising in my throat. I knew exactly who that meeting was with.
At eleven o’clock sharp, the landline in the kitchen rang. Darren had forgotten his cell phone, leaving it face down on the counter. I didn’t answer, letting the ancient answering machine in the hallway click and whirr to life. Dee, it’s Mom. I spoke to Mr. Hayes. Everything can be arranged. The important thing is that she doesn’t suspect anything until the very last moment. Call me when you’re free.
Hayes. The supposed colleague from Seattle. Now it all made perfect, horrifying sense. I felt the solid ground of my life give way beneath my feet. Twenty-five years. A quarter of a century beside a man who was now planning my betrayal with the cold efficiency of a corporate takeover. I picked up his phone. It demanded a six-digit code. I tried the date we met. September 1, 1999. No. I tried Celeste’s birthday. Nothing. Then I thought of the blonde from the jewelers, and a dark intuition guided my fingers. I tried March 8, International Women’s Day. The screen unlocked. Her birthday. The text messages I found there confirmed everything.
Sierra, my love, just a little more patience. After the anniversary, everything will be resolved. The condo will be ours.
Dee, you promised we’d be living together by New Year’s. I’m so tired of hiding.
My love, everything is going according to plan. Mom has already taken care of things. Naomi suspects nothing. Hayes says if we play this right, she’ll only get half. I’ll keep the condo.
Hey, Mom, are you sure the condo title is in both our names? Maybe we got lucky and it’s just mine.
Son, I saw the copies when you bought it. Both names are on it. But Hayes says there are ways. The important thing is she signs the waiver.
And if she won’t sign?
She will sign. After what we’re going to do to her at the party, she won’t have any other option.
What were they going to do to me? A wave of cold anxiety tightened my throat. They were going to humiliate me in front of everyone, accuse me of something monstrous. Without wasting another second, I used my own phone to take pictures of every damning message, then placed his phone back exactly where I found it. I needed a plan. I needed help.
I called Aisha Cole, my friend from college, now a formidable family attorney. We didn’t talk often, but the bond was still strong.
“Naomi,” she said as she answered, her voice warm with surprise. “Long time no talk. How are you?”
“Can we meet today?” I asked, fighting to keep my voice level. “I need a consultation.”
“Sure, I’m free at six. Come to the office and we’ll talk.”
Aisha’s office was downtown, in a sleek, modern high-rise. She greeted me with a firm hug, but her sharp eyes immediately saw the tension I was carrying. “Sit down,” she said, guiding me to a plush chair. “Tell me everything. What’s happened?”
I took a deep, shuddering breath. “Let’s just say… an acquaintance of mine is having some trouble with her husband. He wants a divorce but he’s hiding it, and it seems like he’s setting a trap for her.”
Aisha looked at me intently, her gaze softening. “You sure this is a hypothetical acquaintance, Naomi?”
I was silent for a few seconds, the facade crumbling, and then I told her everything. The late-night calls, the text messages, Sierra, her mother-in-law’s scheming, all of it. Aisha listened, her expression growing grimmer, occasionally asking a precise question for clarification.
“I understand,” she said finally, leaning forward. “This is serious. But you are not lost. The good news is you reacted in time. Tell me about the house. When did you buy it? Whose name is on the title?”
“We bought it in 2005. Both our names are on it, equal shares.”..
“Are you formally employed?”
“Yes, I’m the controller at Alliance Development Group. I’ve been there for fifteen years.”
“And the weekend cabin?”
“Also in both names, but it’s not worth much. The condo is the main asset.”
Aisha jotted down notes on a yellow legal pad. “Naomi, they can’t do anything to you if you keep a clear head. In a divorce, everyone receives what is legally theirs. No one can force you to waive your share. But it’s clear they are planning something dirty. They want to put you in a weak emotional position—a public scandal, a false accusation, something to break your spirit. You need to be ready.”
“How do I prepare?”
“Gather evidence. You’ve already started with the photos. Record conversations if you can, this is a one-party consent state. Move some of the money from your joint savings into an account only in your name, just to protect it. Most importantly, do not let them know that you are onto them. Play along.”
I nodded, a sense of grim determination settling over me. For the first time in days, I felt something close to relief. I had a plan. I had support.
“Thanks, Aisha. How much do I owe you?”
She smiled, a genuine, warm smile. “Nothing, girl. Friends don’t charge for this. Just keep me in the loop. And remember, no matter what happens, you are not alone or defenseless in this.”
I returned home filled with a new resolve, but what I found upon arrival confirmed that the war had already begun. Darren was by the entrance, checking his reflection in the hall mirror.
“You look kind of run down today, huh?” he blurted out without even looking at me directly. “Forgive me for saying it, but yes, Naomi, you’ve let yourself go a bit lately. Look, turning fifty isn’t the end of the world, but you need to take care of yourself. Go to the gym, see the dermatologist, get something done. I saw Candace’s daughter today. She’s thirty but she looks twenty-five. Very polished. And you, well… you understand.”
He was already comparing me to younger women, laying the groundwork, preparing to justify his betrayal to himself and to others.
“I have a meeting tomorrow,” he announced suddenly. “It’s Saturday, I know, but it will take all day.”
Another date with Sierra.
“That’s fine,” I replied, my voice calm and even.
“And Sunday, I’m going with Mom. I’m going to set up her new smart TV.”
Spending the weekend with the Traitor-in-Chief herself.
That night, when Darren was in the shower, I logged into our joint bank account online. In the last month alone, nearly thirty thousand dollars had been withdrawn in a series of transactions—gifts for Sierra, no doubt, payments to the lawyer Hayes, and who knows what else, all funded with our shared money. I let out a short, brittle laugh that held no humor. They were using my own money, the money I had helped earn, to meticulously plan my downfall.
But I had my secret. Something they didn’t know. A week prior, a thick, formal letter had arrived from a notary in Germany. My Aunt Josephine, my father’s older sister, had passed away. She had no children, no spouse. She had left her entire estate to me, her only niece. The estate included a condo in Munich valued at eight hundred thousand dollars, a bank account holding five hundred and seventy thousand dollars, and another luxury investment condo in Miami Beach, Florida. The total value was well over three million dollars. I hadn’t told a soul. I had wanted to surprise Darren on our anniversary, a final, joyful celebration of our life together. Now, that money and those properties were my salvation. I opened my laptop and began researching how to register the inheritance, how to transfer the funds to a secure, personal account, how to legally protect myself from the people who saw me as nothing more than a foolish obstacle to be removed. Darren thought he held all the cards, but the game was just beginning, and he didn’t know the rules had changed…
On Monday, I woke with a clear, cold plan etched in my mind. First, I visited a notary, but not the one handling my aunt’s estate. I went to see an old acquaintance, Mr. Perry, the real estate lawyer who had helped my parents and me purchase the condo all those years ago.
“Naomi Sterling!” he exclaimed, rising from his worn leather chair. “My goodness, how many years has it been? And how is Darren Price doing?”
“Mr. Perry,” I said, stepping into his wood-paneled office, “I need your help. But it has to be strictly confidential.”
The lawyer’s jovial face grew instantly serious. “Sit down, my dear. I’m listening.”
“Do you remember our condo on M Street in Georgetown? You did the title work for us back in 2005.”
“Of course, of course. A very good unit in a fine building. What seems to be the trouble?”
“Do you recall who purchased it first? I mean, where did the money for the down payment come from?”
Mr. Perry frowned, his brow furrowing in thought. He opened a large filing cabinet, his fingers walking through the old folders until he found the right one. He opened it, scanning the dense, legal language. “Here it is,” he said, tapping a specific line with his finger. “It was an unusual case. The money came directly from your parents’ account. It was structured as a direct gift. And in the original deed of gift, you are listed as the sole recipient. Darren’s name was added two months later, as your husband, for what we call ‘estate planning purposes.'”
A surge of warmth, the first I’d felt in weeks, flooded my chest. “So, formally, it’s a premarital asset?”
“Formally, yes. Your parents gifted it to you, solely, before Darren’s name ever appeared on the documents. In the event of a divorce, that distinction can make all the difference. He could only claim a share if he could prove he invested a significant amount of his own separate funds into major renovations or the mortgage.”
A faint, real smile touched my lips for the first time. “Darren never spent a single dime on the condo. I handled all the upkeep, the decor, everything myself.”
“Then his claim would be very weak indeed. Would you like me to provide you with a confirming document, a certified copy of the original deed?”
“Could you? That would be… invaluable.”
“Of course. Come back tomorrow afternoon. It will be ready for you.”
Leaving his office, I felt different. The weight on my shoulders felt a fraction lighter. After so many days of feeling like prey, I finally felt protected, armed. But what awaited me at home nearly took my breath away. A courier had delivered a thick, international envelope from Germany. It was the final, official paperwork for Aunt Josephine’s inheritance. I read through the lines, my eyes widening at the summarized totals. A condo in Munich valued at eight hundred thousand dollars. A bank account with five hundred and seventy thousand dollars. The luxury investment condo in Miami Beach. More than three million dollars in total. I sat down heavily in the living room armchair. I was now a wealthy, independent woman. But Darren could not know. Not yet…
My phone rang. It was Darren, his voice dripping with a false, oily cheerfulness. “Naomi, my love, I was thinking. What if we really go all out for our anniversary? Colleagues, friends, everyone. Let’s make a statement.”
“Why such a big deal all of a sudden, Dee? Why?”
“It’s twenty-five years! A silver anniversary. I want everyone to see what a perfect family we have. I’ve already reserved the ballroom at the Watergate Hotel. For a hundred people.”
A hundred people for my public execution. “A hundred people? Isn’t that terribly expensive, Darren? We’re supposed to be saving for… for the future.”
“Don’t you worry about that,” he interrupted, his tone dismissive. “The money is there. The important thing is the impression we make. We’ll invite my boss, yours. Everyone needs to see just how happy we are.”
What a cynical, monstrous lie.
“Fine,” I said, my voice calm as a still lake. “Whatever you say.”
“Perfect! I have a meeting with some partners now. We’ll talk tonight.”
Partners? I knew exactly what that meant.
In the afternoon, Celeste Price arrived, bearing a “gift.” “Naomi, dear,” she said in a voice sickly sweet with false concern, handing me a small, sealed envelope. “This is a little something from me to you.”
I opened it. Inside was a business card. Hays and Associates, Divorce and Property Law. A handwritten note was paperclipped to it. Free consultation anytime. The sheer, breathtaking audacity of it. They were giving me a consultation with the very lawyer who was masterminding my betrayal.
“Thank you,” I said, my voice dry as dust. “Very thoughtful of you.”
“I do worry about you, daughter.”
Daughter. For the first time in twenty-five years, her mother-in-law called me that, a endearment wielded like a knife just before the final, betraying thrust.
After Celeste left, I began to clean, needing the physical release of simple, mindless work. In one of Darren’s suit jackets, hanging in the hall closet, I found a crumpled business card. Mr. Hays, Family Law. Divorce. Asset Division, Alimony. The same lawyer. The same plan.
Darren came home late that night, reeking of that same expensive perfume and buzzing with a strange, excited energy. He hugged me, his arms feeling like a cage. “Everything is ready. The restaurant, the menu, the guest list. It’s going to be an unforgettable night, Naomi.”
I looked at him, my gaze cold and steady. He was right. It was going to be unforgettable. Just not in the way he imagined.
“D, what cologne are you wearing? That’s not the one you usually wear.”
“Uh,” he hesitated, a deer caught in headlights. “I got on the elevator with the neighbor, Mrs. Gable. She wears a very strong, cheap perfume, and it must have clung to my jacket.” One lie, stacked upon another.
“By the way,” he said, quickly changing the subject and walking toward the window, “at the anniversary, I’m going to give a special speech. About our life together. And about our future plans.”
“What plans?”…
“You’ll see,” he said, a smug smile playing on his lips. “It’s a surprise.”
A surprise? A chill ran down my spine. I couldn’t sleep at all that night. Around two in the morning, I heard the now-familiar murmur. Darren was on the phone in the hallway again. I slipped out of bed, moving as silently as a ghost, and pressed my ear to the cool wood of the bedroom door.
“Mom, everything is perfect. The restaurant is booked. The guests are all confirmed. After the toast, it will all just… happen.”
Are you sure she doesn’t suspect anything? Celeste’s tinny voice asked.
“How would she suspect? She’s naive as a child. She’s always trusted me blindly, and she still does. And if she doesn’t want to sign the papers, she will sign. After what I tell her in front of everyone, she’ll have no other option. Everyone will see what she’s really like, you know.”
Dee, don’t you think it would be better, more dignified, to do this privately? At home, without a public scene?
“No, Mom, it has to be in front of everyone. That way, she won’t be able to make a scene or demand lengthy explanations. She’ll just be shamed into silence. She’ll go straight home, and Hayes will be waiting for her there with the papers. Quick, clean, and no messy drama.”
And Sierra?
“Of course she knows. She’s even coming to the anniversary. I want her to meet my colleagues. I’m going to introduce her as my new marketing assistant.”
You’re being cruel, son.
“It’s not cruelty, Mom. It’s being practical. Twenty-five years was enough. I deserve to be happy, too, even if it’s at her expense.”
I crept back to bed, but sleep was impossible. So Sierra was going to be at the party, too. She was going to have a front-row seat to my humiliation, and then she would step right into my place in my home. That’s what they thought.
In the morning, I went to the bank. I opened a new, personal account and, following Aisha’s advice, transferred half of the money from our joint savings into it. If Darren wanted to continue funding his new life with his mistress, he could do it with his half. Then I went back to Mr. Perry’s office and collected the document that confirmed the condo was mine from before the marriage. Next, I went to work.
“Mr. Boudreaux,” I said, stepping into my boss’s spacious corner office. “Can I speak with you for a moment?”
“Of course, Naomi,” he said, looking up from his computer. “Is everything all right? You’ve seemed a bit preoccupied lately.”
“Everything is fine, for now,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “I just wanted to warn you that I will soon be entering a… difficult personal phase.”
“Divorce?” he asked, his kind face furrowing with a frown. “Seriously? I thought you and Darren were one of the solid ones. You even invited me to your anniversary party next week.”
“That’s exactly why I wanted to warn you,” I said. “If things go a certain way, there might be some… fallout. I hope I can count on your understanding. I want to assure you that my work won’t be affected.”
“Naomi, you are the best controller this company has had in the fifteen years I’ve been here. Your work is impeccable. Whatever happens, your job is safe here. You have my full support.”..
That night, while Darren was at another one of his “meetings,” I took out the inheritance documents and spread them on the kitchen table. I needed a clear, well-thought-out plan. The Miami Beach condo was empty. Aunt Josephine had rented it out, but the lease had ended a month ago. I could move there immediately after the divorce. With the money sitting in the German bank account, I had financial independence for years, decades. And most importantly, I had the document proving the D.C. condo was mine from before the marriage. Darren would never see that coming. Tomorrow was the anniversary. He thought he was going to deliver the final, crushing blow, but he was the one who was about to be blindsided. I carefully placed all the papers into the fireproof safe, and for the first time in weeks, a genuine, steady smile spread across my face.
On Thursday morning, I went to the German consulate. I needed to formalize the inheritance to gain full access to Aunt Josephine’s accounts. The consul, an older gentleman with a neatly trimmed white beard, reviewed the documents with a meticulous eye.
“Everything appears to be in perfect order, Mrs. Sterling,” he said finally, looking up at me. “Your aunt was a very prudent and organized woman. The bank accounts will be formally unlocked and transferred to your name within one week. And regarding the Miami Beach property, the ownership passes to your name immediately. Here are the official title papers. You can dispose of the property as you wish.”
I carefully placed the documents into my bag. I now owned three properties, had over a million dollars in cash on the way, and, most valuable of all, I had my complete freedom. That same day, I went to my bank and opened a new account in Euros to prepare for the international transfer. The bank advisor, a young, efficient woman, looked at the numbers on the official papers with wide, impressed eyes.
“Wow,” she said, unable to contain herself. “You did very well with this inheritance, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” I said, smiling. “My aunt was an incredible woman.”
Leaving the bank, I felt a physical weight lift from my shoulders. For the first time in years, I felt truly, utterly free and independent. I no longer cared what Darren had planned. His schemes were no longer my problem.
But the surprise waiting for me outside the Watergate Hotel was a sharp, unexpected blow. I had gone there to see the venue for myself, to mentally prepare for the battlefield. And right by the grand entrance, a young blonde woman in an unmistakably expensive coat was talking animatedly on her phone.
“D, my love, it’s incredible,” Sierra was saying in a voice dripping with fake sweetness. “The ballroom is just huge, and the decor is divine. You promised we’d be living in a huge condo soon, and I can already imagine hosting our own parties there.”
It was her. My husband’s mistress. She was only a few feet away from me, gushing excitedly about the life she was going to steal from me. I stood perfectly still, watching her. There was no doubt she was pretty, with a great figure, expensively styled hair, and perfect, manicured nails. But her eyes, even from a distance, looked empty, cold, and calculating…
“Of course, I understand tomorrow will be difficult for you,” Sierra continued into the phone, completely oblivious to my presence. “But you said after your speech she’d understand everything, and I’ll be right there as your new assistant. It’s kind of romantic, in a way, don’t you think?”
Publicly humiliating your wife of twenty-five years is romantic? I walked a few steps closer.
“Excuse me,” I said, my voice level. “Do you know where I might find the banquet manager?”
Sierra turned, looked me up and down with a flicker of pure disdain, and then dismissed me. “No idea,” she replied, her voice cold and sharp. “I don’t work here.” She turned her back on me and returned to her phone call. “D, there’s some lady asking me questions here. Okay, I’ll see you tonight. I love you.”
Some lady. I smiled to myself, a small, private smile. Tomorrow, this “lady” was going to deliver the surprise of his life.
The restaurant manager, a kindly, plump woman named Beatrice, received me with a warm smile. “You must be Mrs. Price! Here about the anniversary tomorrow? Your husband has already taken care of everything. The ballroom for a hundred people, the full banquet, the live music quartet. He insisted on the best of everything.”
“And how much did all that cost, if you don’t mind my asking?” I inquired politely.
“Forty-five thousand dollars,” she said, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. “Your husband was very specific. He wanted only the best.”
Forty-five thousand dollars. To publicly humiliate me. I nodded slowly. “I see. May I see the ballroom?”
“Of course, right this way.”..
The room was every bit as luxurious as promised. High, vaulted ceilings, glittering crystal chandeliers, tables draped in immaculate white linen, and enormous, ornate mirrors covering the walls. Every single guest would have a perfect, unobstructed view of the spectacle Darren was planning.
“Where will the microphone be for the toasts?” I asked.
“Right here in the center of the room,” Beatrice said, pointing to a small, raised dais. “Mr. Price was very insistent on that. He said it was vital that everyone in the room could hear him perfectly.”
“Of course,” I replied. So no one would miss a single word of my humiliation.
At home, Darren was waiting for me, pacing nervously in the living room with a folded piece of paper in his hand.
“Ah, Naomi,” he said, quickly stuffing the paper into his pocket when he saw me. “Where were you?”
“At the restaurant,” I said, hanging up my coat. “Just checking on the final arrangements.”
“What did you think?” he asked, a note of anxiety in his voice.
“Impressive. Forty-five thousand dollars for one night is certainly… a statement. Seriously, Dee, don’t you think that’s a bit much? We have other financial plans, don’t we?”
“Don’t worry about it,” he scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. “The money is there. The important thing is the impression we make.”
“On the guests,” I asked quietly, “or on the mistress?”
His face tightened, but he said nothing.
That night, Celeste Price arrived, practically vibrating with excitement. “Dee, son, are you ready? Did you rehearse your speech?”..
“Of course, Mom. Everything is going to be perfect. Don’t you worry.”
She patted his shoulder affectionately. “Your speech will be a great success. Everyone will see that you are making the right decision.”
The right decision. I watched them from the kitchen doorway, the rage building inside me like a silent storm.
“Mom,” Darren asked, his voice dropping to a whisper, “what if she makes a scene?”
“She won’t,” Celeste replied with utter confidence. “With so many important people there, she’ll hold it together. She’s an educated woman. She has her pride. You’ll settle the details quietly at home afterward.”
“And Hayes? Is he ready?”
“Yes, the papers are all drawn up. All she needs to do is sign. After your speech, she’ll have no other choice.”
I retreated quietly to the bedroom and took my own set of papers from the desk drawer. I had everything ready. I placed all the documents into a slim, professional folder—the paper stating the condo was mine from before the marriage, the official inheritance documents from Germany, and the statement for my new, private bank account. Tomorrow, these pieces of paper would change everything.
Later that night, after Celeste had finally left, Darren locked himself in his study. I heard him rehearsing his speech, murmuring the words to himself in a low, earnest monotone. I approached the door and listened, my ear almost touching the wood.
Dear friends, family, today is a very special day. Twenty-five years ago, I made a decision that seemed right at the time. But life moves on, people change, and sometimes you have to have the courage to admit your mistakes… I thank Naomi for these years, but honesty demands that I speak the truth now. We are two very different people, with different values, with completely different plans for the future… and I have made a decision.
The rest was muffled, but the meaning was crystal clear. I returned to the bedroom. I had no desire to sleep.
In the morning, Darren woke up in a strangely jubilant mood. “Naomi,” he said, carefully adjusting his tie in front of the mirror. “Today is a great day.”
“Yes,” I replied. “Our anniversary.”
“Not just that,” he said, a weird, smug smile playing on his lips. “Tomorrow, your life is going to change. And so is
