Chapter 1The Husband Who Was The Mistress

The air in the suite was still heavy with the scent of expensive lilies and the lingering hum of the reception downstairs. It was my wedding night—the beginning of everything I had spent years dreaming of. But when I reached for my wife, she pulled away with a coldness that made my skin crawl.

I thought she was just exhausted. The wedding had been a marathon of high-society expectations and forced smiles. I reached out again, trying to pull her into my arms, ready to make a joke to break the tension.

“It’s actually pretty boring being with you,” she said. Her voice was flat, as if she were discussing the weather.

She gestured toward the nightstand, where a box of condoms sat. My best friend, Dexter, had handed them to me earlier that day with a wink.

“Before the ceremony, he and I were together all night,” Monica said, her tone light, almost conversational. “That box? It’s empty. We used them all.”

The room seemed to tilt. I felt the blood drain from my face, but she wasn’t finished.

“When I was late to the toasts? It wasn’t because I felt faint. We were in the dressing room for another round. That’s why my legs were shaking when I finally came out.”

A small, reminiscent smile played on her lips. “To be honest, being with him is the only thing that makes me feel alive. He knows exactly how to handle a woman. He gave me a pleasure I didn't know existed.”

She looked at me then, her eyes sharp as glass. “Something you could never do.”

Her words were like serrated blades carving through my chest. I stood there, frozen, my mouth opening and closing as my throat tightened, sealing off any sound.

Monica sighed, a soft sound that held a hint of apology but far more relief.

“Logan, I’ve said what I needed to say. Whether we keep this farce going or not... that’s up to you.”

* * *

I stared at her, listening to the casual cruelty of her voice. I forced every ounce of my remaining strength into three raspy words.

“Why? Just... why?”

Monica paused, her gaze drifting back to me with utter indifference.

“Why what? Why did I sleep with him? Or why am I telling you now?”

The silence that followed was suffocating. She let out a short, mocking scoff.

“Logan, every time we tried, you always had an excuse. ‘Not in the mood,’ ‘Not feeling right.’ If you’re broken, is it really my fault for looking elsewhere? I wasn't going to tell you—Dexter was worried about losing his 'brother'—but three years is a long time to play pretend. Hiding every time we wanted to touch each other was getting exhausting.”

My heart hammered against my ribs. “Three years?”

Monica nodded, her expression thoughtful. Then, she let out a genuine laugh.

“Yeah. Three years ago, at your parents’ funeral. After you passed out from crying so hard, we went into the room next door. It was the first time. We were so reckless I ruined my dress. You thought it was my period, remember? You spent the whole day taking care of me. You even hand-washed the silk, thinking you were being so sweet, not realizing you were scrubbing his fluids out of my skirt.”

Seeing that malicious glint in her eyes, I reached my breaking point. I didn't think; I just reacted. My hand swung out, and the crack of the slap echoed through the room.

“Have you no shame, Monica? Have you no soul?”

The despair felt like a black hole opening up inside me. It dragged me back to when I was eighteen. My father’s business had collapsed into a heap of debt and scandals. I watched him walk off the edge of a rooftop. I came home to find my mother being tormented by creditors—men who stripped her of her dignity until she, too, followed him into the abyss, dying right in front of me.

I lost everything in a single night. The depression that followed wasn't just sadness; it was a physical weight that crushed the life out of me.

During those dark years, Monica and Dexter were my anchors. They were the ones who stayed. I worked three jobs, destroying my health to pay off the debts my father left behind. Every time I felt like I was slipping into the dark, Monica would hold me, whispering into my ear, “Don’t be afraid, Logan. You have me. I’m never leaving.”

Even last night, she had called me, her voice trembling with what I thought was joy, calling me "husband" over and over.

Remembering how raspy her voice had sounded on that call, the realization hit me like a physical blow. She wasn't crying because she was happy to marry me. I was just the audience for their twisted foreplay.

My stomach churned. I lurched off the bed, stumbling toward the bathroom, and began to retch violently. My strength evaporated.

A shadow fell over me. Monica stood in the doorway, looking down at my trembling body. For the first time in years, she didn't reach down to hold me. She just watched me, her face a mask of boredom.

Finally, she pulled a tissue from the box and dropped it near my hand, like she was feeding a stray dog.

“Clean yourself up. A grown man acting like this... it’s pathetic.”