At three in the morning on Valentine's Day, my husband's mistress bought herself a spot on the trending page.
"William Whitney just got my nickname tattooed on his most private area. Wifey, do take good care of him for the next few days, won't you?"
The internet exploded. The whole city was placing bets on whether I'd do what I did two years ago and pay a fortune to bury the scandal, or whether I'd go the route I took last year and show up at the other woman's door myself.
Everyone had an opinion. Everyone except my husband, who seemed to find the whole thing entertaining enough to fan the flames, dropping a breezy comment beneath the trending post:
"Don't be jealous, babe. None of them hold a candle to how gorgeous you were back in the day."
The Harbor City tabloids immediately dug up a photo from when I was eighteen, arriving in the city with William Whitney. He'd carried me off the boat that day, right in front of the cameras.
That image lined up perfectly with the bold headline splashed across the papers:
PREGNANT MRS. WHITNEY — WHAT A SAINT!
I stared at the gossip, the rumors, the noise. But this time, the anger I usually felt didn't come.
Calmly, I picked up my phone and posted a photo under the viral thread — me leaning against a broad, muscular chest.
"Taken. Don't bother."
——
After I posted it, I didn't get to see the firestorm I'd expected.
Within three minutes, my account was suspended.
The reason: spreading false information.
Meanwhile, my chat window with William — perpetually empty for years — was suddenly flooded with new messages.
"Who's that guy?"
"Where are you right now? Get home. NOW."
"Not answering? Fine. Don't let me catch you two together, or you'll regret it."
Seven years of marriage, and this was the first time I had to think about whether to reply to him — instead of dreaming up excuses to reach out first.
But then I saw that he'd changed his profile picture to match Martha McClain's for the fifth time this month.
My fingers hovered over the screen. Then they stilled.
Suddenly, none of it seemed worth the effort.
I switched off my phone and rolled over to sleep.
Half an hour later, the door to my hotel suite was kicked open.
Before I could react, a hand seized my arm.
William Whitney stood over me, chest heaving, his eyes sharp as a hawk's.
"Where is he?"
I tried to pull my arm free. I couldn't.
"Just left."
The two words barely left my mouth before he hauled me into the bathroom and shoved me into the tub.
His face was stone. He held the showerhead over me and blasted my body with water, watching me tremble from the cold, then yanked my collar open with one hand, searching for marks.
Crack.
I slapped him across the face.
A red welt bloomed instantly on his cheek — though it wasn't as red as the hickey on his neck.
William laughed. He tossed the showerhead aside.
The cold water swirling around me turned pink. Only then did I realize he'd torn the skin on my wrist.
"Sweetheart, I knew you were lying. You're just jealous, aren't you?"
"What man would want you? Everyone in Harbor City knows you followed me here from the mainland when you were eighteen. Without the title of Mrs. Whitney, what do you even have?"
He wrapped me in a towel and carried me to the couch.
The fruity perfume clinging to William mixed with the hotel suite's diffuser, and the combination made my stomach turn.
"I'll allow you to be jealous. But you are never to lay a finger on Martha. You should know she's more than just a mistress to me."
I lowered my gaze. His hand — the one wearing a ring that said single — rested on my belly.
My voice was flat. "William, maybe I should just give up the title of Mrs. Whitney to—"
"What?"
He finished typing a text with a grin, then looked up.
I shook my head.
This time, both our phones buzzed at the same moment.
He replied to Martha McClain:
"Happy Valentine's Day, baby. Love you forever."
I replied to an unknown number:
"I want to go home. As soon as possible."
William watched me sitting there with wet hair, head bowed over my phone.
