HIS MISTRESS, MY REVENGE

The candles are still burning. Two little flames sitting in the center of the dining table. I have been watching them for a while now. Not because they are beautiful, but because watching them gives me something to do other than check the door. The food went cold an hour ago. The wine I opened at six has been sitting there so long it has stopped trying. Both plates still set. Both chairs still pushed in. The whole table exactly as I arranged it at five this afternoon when I was still the kind of woman who believed tonight was going to go the way I planned. I called him at seven. Five rings. Voicemail. I told myself traffic. A late meeting. Normal things. I called again at nine. Voicemail again. I told myself his phone is on silent, he is in a room full of people, he will walk through that door any minute and feel terrible about it and I will pretend I am not hurt because that is what I do. I make it easy. I make it fine. I smooth the front of the blue dress and reach for my phone one more time. No missed calls. No texts. Not even a notification. I check the time, nine forty-one. I was still staring at it when the front door opens. I am on my feet before I decide to stand. The relief is embarrassing, warm and immediate, flooding through my whole chest before I can stop it. I reach up to smooth my hair. I am already composing my face into something soft and welcoming when the heels click across the hallway floor. Not his shoes. I know those heels. Beatrice Sinclair walks in the way she always walks into this house, like the deed is in her name and I am a guest who has overstayed. Grey coat, pearl earrings, bag in the crook of her arm, lipstick perfect because Beatrice is always perfect. She looks at me first. Then past me at the table. Her eyes move slowly across everything, the candles, the two plates, the full untouched wine bottle, the whole careful humiliating effort of this evening, and something settles in her expression that has never once in five years been sympathy. “He is not here,” I say. “I can see that.” She sets her bag on the side table without being invited to. “I need the documents Harold left in the study.” “I will get them.” “Do not trouble yourself.” She does not move toward the study. She stays exactly where she is and keeps looking at the table. “You cooked,” she says. “It is my birthday.” She makes a small sound. Not quite a laugh. “Yes,” she says. “I know.” I look at her steadily. “Do you know where Damien is? He is not picking up.” “My son is a grown man with a company to run.” “I am not asking for his schedule, Beatrice. I have been sitting here since seven. I just want to know he is okay.” She turns to face me fully then. The way she does when she has decided the moment has finally arrived for something she has been holding for a while. “Amelia.” Her voice drops into that careful, almost gentle register, the one that is always worse than when she is just cold. “I am going to say something honest because I think you need it more than you need comfort right now.” A pause that she controls completely. “You are a lovely woman. Truly. You dress beautifully, you keep a spotless home, you cook better than most women I know.” Her eyes drift to the table and then back to me. “But lovely is not what keeps a man. Not a man like Damien. Five years of marriage and no child. Not once, not even close.” She tilts her head. “A man does not stay at a table, no matter how beautifully it is set, when there is nothing being built at it.” The room goes still. I stare at her. “You do not get to say that to me,” I say. My voice comes out quieter than I want it to. “I just did,” she says simply. “And you know as well as I do that I am not telling you anything you have not already thought yourself.” She walks to the study. I stand at the table and press both palms flat against the back of my chair and I breathe. The study door opens. Papers. The door again. Her heels coming back across the floor. She passes me without stopping, picks up her bag, and pauses at the hallway with her back half turned. “Do not let those candles burn to nothing,” she says, almost as an afterthought. “The wax will ruin that cloth.” The front door opens. Closes. She is gone. I sit back down in my chair. The candles drip. The food is stone cold. The wine has given up entirely. And Beatrice’s words are sitting inside my chest, pressed exactly against the part of me that has been bruised for years, the part I do not let myself look at directly. Five years and no child. You know I am not wrong. I pick up my phone and call Damien one last time. It rings. Rings. Rings. Voicemail. I lower the phone and I am staring at nothing when the screen lights up. Sophia. My best friend, the one who sent me three voice notes and a terrible off-key birthday song this morning before I was even awake. Her message now is only a few words. “Amelia please call me. Did you see this.” And a link. I tap it. Instagram. A post already sitting at almost two hundred comments. I recognise the restaurant immediately, a rooftop place in the city with fairy lights strung along the railings and a view of the whole skyline, the kind of place Damien always said was too crowded and not his style, the kind of place he had never once taken me. And there in the center of the frame, loose and relaxed, one hand around a champagne flute and the other resting easy on the back of a woman’s chair, laughing at something off camera, is my husband. Damien. I scroll. More photos. A private dinner earlier in the evening, low lighting, white tablecloths, the kind of restaurant that needs a two-month booking. Damien in his navy jacket, the one I chose with him at the store on Fifth last winter, leaning forward across the table, warm and present and engaged in a way I have not seen from him in longer than I want to say out loud. And sitting across from him, leaning toward him with the ease of a woman who has been exactly there many times before, a woman I have never seen in my life. Dark hair. Beautiful in the specific way that makes your stomach drop. A cream dress stretched beautifully over a stomach that is round and full and very, very pregnant. The caption reads: “My whole world in one frame. (heart emoji)” The comments say things like she is absolutely glowing and you two are everything and the most beautiful couple. Someone has tagged Damien’s account directly. Someone has replied to that tag with a string of hearts. I read every single comment. I do not know why I do that but I do. Then I set the phone face down on the table. The candles have burned almost to nothing. Just two small trembling flames on wax stumps, sitting in wide puddles on the tablecloth I ironed this afternoon. The table I set for two. The wine I opened for him. The dress he said made me look soft. My hands are not shaking. That surprises me. I thought they would shake. He knew it was my birthday. Damien does not forget things. He remembers investor names and closing dates and the exact wine from a dinner three years back. He was twenty minutes from this house tonight, in that restaurant, with fairy lights and champagne and his hand on the back of her chair. And he did not answer at seven. He did not answer at nine. He did not answer just now. He did not forget. He just did not come. I reach out and I pick up the wine glass I never filled tonight. I hold it in both hands and I sit there and I look at the last of the candles flickering in the dark and I feel something shifting inside me. Something with no name yet. Not grief. Not anger. Not the particular kind of humiliation that comes from sitting in a blue dress at a table for two while your husband takes another woman to dinner across the city. Something quieter than all of that. Something that feels, for the first time in a very long time, like I am finally done pretending.