My Husband Cut Down My Last Memory for His Mistress

As I approached the wrought-iron gates of our estate, I saw the groundskeeper directing men to cut down the magnolia tree at the entrance.

Mark caught up with me, his voice flat and businesslike, the same tone he used when ordering a hit.

"Leslie, Megan's pregnant. The scent makes her nauseous. The tree has to go."

That tree was planted the day I was born. My parents had died in a rival family's ambush when I was six, leaving me almost nothing. That tree was one of the few things I had left of them.

When my eyes reddened, he didn't soften. Instead, he pulled out his wallet.

"Name your price. I'll compensate you."

I didn't answer.

What price could you put on a tree? On seven years of marriage? Even our seven years of marriage had become something I no longer knew how to value.

I thought back to last month at the ski lodge in Aspen, he'd done the same thing. "Leslie, give Megan your goggles. The glare bothers her eyes. You can use the spare pair."

It was always like this. Megan's needs always came first. And me? His wife? I was just there, made to feel like an outsider.

I watched the magnolia tree begin to fall, its white blossoms scattering across the driveway like snow.

"It's just a tree," I said softly. "How could it compare to Megan's baby?"

Mark froze, clearly surprised. In the past, whenever he had coddled Megan, I would have surely caused a scene

"Leslie... you're really not angry?"

Before he could say more, Megan came running out in one of Mark's dress shirts, its sleeves rolled up to reveal angry red welts across her forearms.

"Mark!" Her voice was breathy, panicked. "I think I'm having an allergic reaction. The baby, oh God, what if something happens to the baby?"

She stumbled dramatically, twisting her ankle.

Mark's face changed at once, cold calculation giving way to raw fear. He swept her into his arms, cradling her like she was made of glass.

"Get Dr. Castellano here. NOW." His voice cracked like a whip at the house manager.

The staff exchanged glances, some smirking at me. The Don's wife, humiliated again.

And in that moment, I couldn’t help but find the scene absurd myself.

Yesterday, I'd been rear-ended on the highway. My car had spun out, hit the median.

Sitting in the cold, sterile hallway of the hospital, I dialed Mark’s number again and again, my fingers trembling uncontrollably from fear. The phone rang countless times, yet not a single call connected.

I'd thought he was in a meeting with the other families. Some kind of emergency.

Then I saw him at the end of the corridor, carefully guiding Megan toward the obstetrics wing. My husband, the feared underboss of the Donovan crime family, was tying her shoelace and whispering something that made her smile.

My chest felt as if it had been crushed by an invisible hand. My throat went dry, and a heavy, suffocating weight settled over me.

Now, standing in our driveway, I gripped my suitcase handle and turned to leave.

Mark's hand shot out, fingers closing around my wrist like a vice. "Apologize."

"What?"

Before I could even react, he had dragged me over to Megan, his voice dark and commanding:"I told you two days ago we needed to cut down that tree. You refused. Now Megan's had an allergic reaction because of your stubbornness. Apologize to her and the baby."