My Husband’s Mistress Received a Gift With My Name on It
Chapter 1
THEME: FONT SIZE: 18pxMy Husband’s Mistress Received a Gift With My Name on It
PART 1: THE CHRISTMAS GIFT SHE OPENED FOR ME
Everyone was watching her.
Not me.
Her.
Sloane Mercer sat beside the fireplace in my living room as if she belonged there.
The fire reflected across her red silk dress. Gold light moved over the diamonds at her ears and the champagne flute balanced loosely between two manicured fingers. Behind her, our twelve-foot Christmas tree glittered with white lights, silver ornaments, and the antique crystal angels Preston's mother insisted belonged on every Whitmore tree.
The room smelled of pine, amber, expensive candles, and carefully rehearsed lies.
The black gift box rested in Sloane's lap.
My name was written on the tag.
Not hers.
Mine.
Vivian.
I could see Preston's handwriting from where I stood.
Sloane smiled.
"Oh, Preston..."
Her fingers slipped beneath the satin ribbon.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Confidently.
No one stopped her.
Not my mother-in-law, Eleanor, who sat rigidly on the ivory sofa with a champagne flute in one hand.
Not my father-in-law, Richard, who suddenly found the fire fascinating.
Not Preston's younger brother, Graham, though his jaw tightened hard enough that I saw the muscle move.
Not the cousins gathered near the piano.
Not the aunt who had spent dinner asking me whether Preston and I were "still thinking about children."
Not one of the people who had eaten my food, drunk my wine, complimented my Christmas decorations, and then settled into my living room to watch another woman open a gift addressed to me.
And certainly not my husband.
Especially not my husband.
Preston stood behind the sofa with one hand in the pocket of his black trousers.
Calm.
Perfectly calm.
He wasn't confused.
He wasn't embarrassed.
He wasn't moving toward Sloane to tell her she'd picked up the wrong box.
He was watching me.
That was when I understood.
This wasn't carelessness.
It wasn't a mistake.
It wasn't one of those awkward social accidents everyone would laugh about later.
It was a performance.
And I had been assigned a role without being asked.
The humiliated wife.
Sloane lifted the lid.
Diamonds caught the firelight.
There was a soft, collective change in the room—not quite a gasp, but something close.
She lifted the bracelet from the black velvet.
It was delicate and obscenely beautiful.
A line of pear-shaped diamonds set in platinum.
I knew Bellamy & Rowe's work. Anyone who spent enough time around the Whitmores did.
Sloane held the bracelet against her wrist.
"Oh, Preston," she whispered. "It's beautiful."
My husband smiled at her.
Not apologetically.
Not nervously.
Tenderly.
Then he said the words that silenced the room.
"It suits her better."
For a moment, I couldn't hear anyone breathing.
Only the fire.
Only the faint Christmas music coming from the speakers.
Only my own heartbeat.
Once.
Twice.
Hard enough that I could feel it in my throat.
Someone gasped.
Graham muttered, "Jesus Christ."
Eleanor said his name sharply.
"Graham."
As if his language were the problem.
I looked at Preston.
Eight years of marriage stood between us.
Eight Christmas mornings.
Eight anniversaries.
Three homes before this one.
One miscarriage we had never learned how to talk about.
Hundreds of nights when he'd reached for me in his sleep.
A thousand tiny promises that had once seemed too ordinary to break.
And there he was.
Watching another woman wear diamonds he'd wrapped beneath a tag bearing my name.
I had known about Sloane for eleven days.
Not because Preston had confessed.
Not because someone in his family had developed a conscience.
I had known because eleven days earlier, Preston had left his phone on the kitchen island while he showered.
A message appeared on the screen.
I hate sleeping alone after being with you.
There had been a heart beneath it.
And a name.
Sloane.
I hadn't opened the phone.
I hadn't needed to.
After that, things I'd refused to see rearranged themselves in my mind.
The sudden late meetings.
The gym membership he barely used.
The new cologne.
The weekends when he became strangely protective of his phone.
The hotel receipt he had explained as a client dinner.
Eleanor's careful silences.
Richard's refusal to meet my eyes at Thanksgiving.
Sloane appearing at more Whitmore gatherings because she was supposedly "a family friend."
Apparently, I had been the last person officially informed of my own marriage ending.
But even after the message, some part of me had still been looking for a reason not to believe the worst.
That part died while Sloane fastened my bracelet around her wrist.
I could have screamed.
I could have slapped her.
I could have torn the bracelet from her arm.
I could have thrown Preston's champagne into his face.
May you like
And I knew now that he wanted me to.
There was expectation in his expression.
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