My Husband’s Mistress Received a Gift With My Name on It
Chapter 2
THEME: FONT SIZE: 18pxHe wanted an explosion.
Tears would have been even better.
He wanted me emotional.
Messy.
Uncontrolled.
He wanted the room to leave Christmas dinner remembering Vivian Whitmore losing her mind in front of everyone.
Instead, I stayed still.
That disappointed him.
I could see it.
The smallest crease appeared between his eyebrows.
Sloane noticed too.
She raised her wrist, allowing the bracelet to slide against her skin.
"Aren't you going to say something?"
Her voice was soft.
Almost playful.
Cruelty disguised as curiosity.
I stepped forward.
Preston straightened.
For one satisfying second, Sloane's confidence faltered.
Maybe she thought I really was going to take the bracelet off her.
I didn't.
I walked past her.
Toward the empty box.
The black velvet insert had shifted when she pulled the bracelet free.
The ribbon lay beside it.
And underneath the ribbon was a folded rectangle of cream paper.
A receipt.
They had been so eager to stage my humiliation that neither of them had bothered to clean up the packaging.
I picked it up.
No one cared.
Everyone was still watching the diamonds.
I unfolded the paper.
Bellamy & Rowe.
December 18.
Pear-cut diamond bracelet.
The purchase amount made my stomach tighten.
$18,750.
Then I saw the payment information.
Visa Signature.
Last four digits: 4417.
Cardholder:
VIVIAN H. WHITMORE.
For a second, I thought I'd misunderstood.
I read it again.
My name.
Not Preston's.
Mine.
I knew every card in my wallet.
I knew our joint cards.
I knew the household account.
I knew the card numbers ending in 0382 and 7104.
I had never seen a card ending in 4417.
There was a billing notation beneath it.
Electronic receipt sent to:
P.W. OFFICE ADMIN
My heartbeat changed.
The humiliation disappeared.
So did Sloane.
So did the room.
Everything narrowed to those four numbers.
I heard Preston laugh at something one of his cousins said.
I looked up.
He was relaxed again.
He thought I'd found a receipt showing he had bought his mistress an expensive gift.
He thought that was the scandal.
He had no idea what I had actually seen.
A strange calm settled over me.
Not relief.
Not forgiveness.
Something colder.
Cleaner.
I folded the receipt once.
Then again.
Slipped it into my clutch.
Preston watched me.
I smiled.
That unsettled him more than anger would have.
"I hope you enjoy it," I said to Sloane.
Her smile flickered.
Only for a second.
But I saw it.
Preston did too.
"Vivian," Eleanor began.
I turned toward her.
She stopped.
Maybe she was about to tell me not to make a scene.
Maybe she was going to ask me to understand.
People like Eleanor Whitmore believed humiliation only became vulgar when the victim objected to it.
"Thank you for dinner," I said.
She stared at me.
I had hosted dinner.
The words were absurd.
That was why I chose them.
I picked up my coat.
"You're leaving?" Preston asked.
There was irritation beneath the surprise.
"Yes."
"Vivian."
I looked at him.
He seemed to be searching for the correct expression.
Concern wouldn't work.
Anger was too revealing.
Tenderness would be insulting.
Eventually he settled on impatience.
"We should talk."
"We should."
His shoulders loosened.
He thought I meant now.
"Tomorrow," I said.
Then I walked out.
No one followed me.
That mattered more than I wanted it to.
Not one person came into the foyer.
Not one hand touched my shoulder.
Not one voice said, Vivian, are you all right?
The door closed behind me.
Snow was falling.
Tiny white flakes disappeared against the dark wool of my coat as I crossed the front steps.
Our driver had the night off, so I walked to my own car parked near the edge of the circular drive.
My hands didn't shake until I locked the doors.
Then they wouldn't stop.
I sat in darkness.
I didn't cry.
I wanted to.
God, I wanted to.
But something stronger than grief had taken hold.
I opened my clutch.
The receipt seemed almost harmless beneath the dashboard light.
A little piece of paper.
Four numbers.
My name.
I took a photograph of it.
Then another.
Then I emailed the photographs to an account Preston didn't know I still used.
After that I searched my banking apps.
No card ending in 4417.
I checked my credit-card accounts.
Nothing.
I searched my email for the last four digits.
No results.
Bellamy & Rowe.
Nothing.
My name had paid for that bracelet.
But I hadn't.
May you like
At 10:47 p.m. on Christmas night, sitting in my car outside the house where my husband had just given his mistress diamonds in front of his family, I called the number on the back of one of my existing cards and asked to be transferred to the bank's fraud department.
The woman who answered sounded tired but kind.
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