Chapter 1

I was in the kitchen washing veggies when the doorbell rang.

Cold water trickled through my fingers, making my hands red and numb.

"Mom, someone's here for you," Teresa Bennett called from the living room. Her voice was clear and crisp.

I was about to answer with a smile. But when I looked up and saw toys and food scattered everywhere, my smile faded.

I wiped my hands and straightened my apron, trying to look a bit more put together.

The door was slightly ajar.

A woman stood outside. She wore a beige trench coat, her waist so tiny it looked like a thread. From head to toe, she was decked out in new stuff, including a new bag, new shoes, and a new hairstyle.

I caught it in a single glance.

Meanwhile, my old sweater was covered in pills, the cuffs were loose, and I'd been wearing it for eight years straight.

"Hi, Laura." She greeted me with a polite, sweet smile. "I'm Camila Garcia."

I froze for a second, and a word popped into my head. 'Mistress.'

*****

Or, to put it more nicely, Camila was my husband's lover.

She walked in like she owned the place. The click-clack of her heels was loud enough to make my ears ring.

While she was changing her shoes, I noticed the high heels by her feet, so thin they looked ready to snap, so polished they gleamed.

I suddenly thought of the black leather shoes sitting in the closet that I bought before I got married. When the heel broke, I fixed it with super glue and kept wearing them for another three years.

Teresa got up from the couch, eyeing her curiously. "Who are you?"

"I'm a friend of your dad's." Camila smiled and set a bag of fruit on the coffee table, acting like she was a family friend dropping by for a visit. "Are you doing your homework? Good girl."

Teresa nodded, then glanced over at me.

My heart skipped a beat. "Have a seat," I said, gesturing to the couch, then turned away to fetch some coffee.

The kettle had just finished boiling, and the kitchen was so full of steam it made my eyes burn.

I carried out two cups of coffee, set one down for Camila, and kept the other for myself.

"You're here for him?" I asked, getting straight to the point.

"Yeah." She nodded. "I couldn't get through to him on his phone."

"He's probably working overtime." I caught myself covering for him out of habit.

Only after saying it did I realize that over the years, I'd already said those words on his behalf countless times.

Camila looked down and took a small sip of coffee. Her red lipstick left a mark on the rim of the cup, like a flower petal.

Then she suddenly looked up at me, her gaze more intense. "Laura, actually, I came here to see you."

It felt like someone had slammed a fist into my back. "You're here for me?" I asked.

She took a slow breath, as if she were trying to figure out how to say it. "Please don't get upset. I've actually been with him for three years."

The living room was dead silent. The TV was off, and the clock on the wall ticked away.

My tinnitus flared up all of a sudden, like someone was breaking dishes inside my skull.

"Three years," I repeated, my voice barely steady. "How old are you?"

"Twenty-six," she replied, quite frankly.

She was only twenty-six. I was thirty-eight. I'd been married to James‌ Bennett for sixteen years.

I couldn't help but laugh at the irony. It was like someone had split my life in two with a single stroke.

Before I got married, I was a proud graduate from a prestigious university and the most promising newcomer at work.

After marriage, I became chained to the stove, buried under endless laundry, waking up three times a night to feed the baby, and spending my days as a full-time caregiver for my father-in-law.

James‌, on the other hand, had the heart to carry on a three-year affair.

"Laura, we've wrestled with this too." Camila pulled out a tissue, her fingers gripping it so tightly they turned pale. "He told me he's miserable at home."

She glanced up at me. Her eyes were wide and bright, with a slight upward tilt at the corners, giving her an air of youth and innocence.

But to a woman my age, those eyes were nothing but trouble.

"He says you have a bad temper and you often snap at him," she said softly. "And he says you're always suspicious, always accusing him of blowing money, and you go through his phone every day."

I let out a laugh. It was dry and rough, like sandpaper scraping against metal.

Yeah, I did check his phone.

One night, while he was in the shower, his phone lit up on the nightstand. A message popped up on the screen. [Hey, why didn't you have dinner again? Is your stomach acting up?]

It was followed by a long string of caring messages. The tone was way too intimate for a coworker.

At that moment, I totally froze.