When My Husband’s Mistress Slapped Me at Work

Synopsis

The apartment was quiet the way only a New York apartment can be quiet—full of traffic hum, building breath, the dishwasher clicking through its cycle in the kitchen. I was on the couch with my feet tucked under me, a half-cold cup of tea on the side table. Grayson was in his office down the hall. I could hear the low murmur of a call. Something about numbers. Something about margins. I opened Instagram without thinking. Just thumb, screen, habit. His profile picture stopped me. It was new.