Chapter 3: Getting caught with his Mistress

It was an address, followed by the name of a hotel and its room number.

The Grand Hyatt. Room 814. If you want to see for yourself come quickly now. I read the message.

My hands trembled as I stared at the screen, the words blurring through a fresh wave of tears. The Grand Hyatt, that was where Marcus had taken me for our anniversary last year, before everything fell apart. Before Lily's diagnosis had consumed our lives.

I looked over at Lily, who had drifted back into her fitful sleep, her small brow furrowed with discomfort even in unconsciousness. Her breathing was shallow, each inhale was a struggle.

Severe Combined Immunodeficiency, SCID, the doctors called it. A cruel genetic lottery that had left my daughter without a functioning immune system, rendering her vulnerable to every germ, every virus, every bacterium that crossed her path. The bone marrow transplant they were planning was her only hope, a one-in-four chance of finding a perfect donor match and a fifty percent chance of survival even with one. And it costs more money than we would ever see in a lifetime.

"Money he was spending on another man's child."

I gently shook Lily's shoulder, my touch was feather-light. "Sweetheart," I whispered, "I need to run out for a bit. I'll be right back."

Her eyes fluttered open, cloudy with confusion. "But, Mom..."

"I'm going to get you your favorite chocolate," I promised, hating myself for the lie even as the words left my lips. "The special kind from the gourmet shop downtown. I'll be back in no time, okay?"

A small smile touched her lips. "The dark chocolate with caramel?"

"The very same," I confirmed, leaning down to kiss her forehead. "Now you rest, and I'll be back before you know it."

I waited until her eyes had closed again, until her breathing had evened out into the shallow rhythm of sleep, before I tiptoed out of the room. The house felt cavernous and empty as I moved through it, my footsteps echoing on the hardwood floors like accusations.

In my bedroom, I opened the closet, my hands moving past the sensible clothes I usually wore, jeans and sweaters, practical outfits for hospital visits and playground excursions, until I found it: the red silk gown Marcus had bought me for our fifth anniversary. The one I had worn exactly once, the night he had told me he loved me more than anything in the world. The one that still smelled faintly of his cologne and my shattered dreams.

I slipped it on, the cool fabric caressing my skin like a lover's touch. My reflection in the mirror was a stranger to me, a woman with haunted eyes and determination set to her jaw, a woman about to confront the truth she had suspected for months but had been too afraid to acknowledge.

The cab ride to the hotel was a blur of city lights and rain-streaked windows. I sat in the back, my hands clenched in my lap, my heart pounding with a rhythm that seemed to shake the very foundations of my being. The driver caught my eye in the rearview mirror, his expression sympathetic, but I looked away, focusing instead on the passing buildings, each one a monument to someone else's happiness, someone else's intact life.

When we arrived at The Grand Hyatt, the doorman opened my cab door with a flourish, his eyes widening slightly at my appearance. I could feel his gaze follow me as I crossed the lobby, my heels clicking against the marble floor with a confidence I didn't feel. The red silk gown clung to my curves, a banner of defiance in a world that had tried to break me.

At the reception desk, the young clerk smiled professionally. "Welcome to The Grand Hyatt. How may I help you this evening?"

"I'm here to see my husband," I said, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. "He forgot his key card in our room. Room 814."

I don't know how I quickly called out his name.

The clerk's fingers flew across the keyboard. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but I can't let you up without proper identification or a key card."

I leaned forward, lowering my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "It's rather embarrassing, actually. We had... well, we had a bit of a fight, and he stormed out without his wallet or his key. I've been trying to call him, but he's not answering. I just need to get into the room to wait for him."

The clerk's expression softened with understanding. "Ah, marital disputes. I understand completely." He glanced around the lobby, then leaned closer. "Technically, I'm not supposed to do this, but..." He paused, making a show of considering his options. "Tell you what. I'll let you up this once, but you'll need to show me some ID first."

I fumbled in my purse for my driver's license, my hands trembling so badly that I could barely hold it steady. The clerk glanced at it, then back at me, his eyes lingering for a moment on the wedding band that still circled my finger.

"Mrs. Thorne," he said, making a show of typing into his computer again. "Everything seems to be in order. Here's a key card for Room 814. Please return it to the desk when you're done."

"Thank you," I whispered, taking the card from his outstretched hand. "I really appreciate this."

He winked conspiratorially. "Just between us. Hope you and your husband can work things out."

I offered a tight smile as I turned away, my heart hammering against my ribs. Work things out. If he only knew.

The elevator ride to the eighth floor was the longest of my life. The soft music playing through the speakers seemed mocking somehow, a cheerful tune in a world of misery. When the doors finally slid open, I found myself in a corridor carpeted in rich burgundy, the walls adorned with tasteful artwork that did nothing to soothe my frayed nerves.

Room 814 was at the end of the hall, its brass number gleaming under the soft track lighting. I stood before it for a long moment, my key card clutched in my trembling hand, my ear pressed against the cool wood of the door. At first, there was nothing but the muffled sound of my own breathing. I didn't even come here in the first place, just because someone sent me an unknown message. What if they want to harm me in this process, I was still in thought when I heard a soft moan, followed by a low laugh that I recognized instantly.

“Marcus.”

My hand shook as I slid the key card into the slot, the green light blinking on in approval. I turned the handle slowly, carefully, easing the door open just enough to peer inside.

The room was dark except for the soft glow of city lights filtering through the sheer curtains. And there, on the king-sized bed, were two bodies intertwined in passionate embrace, a man and a woman, lost in a world of their own making.

Even in the dim light, I would have recognized Marcus anywhere. The familiar line of his shoulders, the way his muscles tensed as he moved, the guttural sounds he made when he was lost in pleasure. And the woman beneath him, her long dark hair spread across the pillows like a fan, her pale skin illuminated by the city lights, her legs wrapped around his waist as she met his thrusts with equal enthusiasm.

I stood frozen in the doorway, my mind refusing to process what my eyes were seeing. My husband, my Marcus was fucking another woman not any woman but Sophia. His friend's wife, whom he had told me about, so this is what they have been doing all along. Not just fucking her, but making love to her with an intensity.

I watched, mesmerized, as he moved above her, his hips grinding in a rhythm that spoke of long familiarity, of practiced ease. The Sophia arched beneath him, her hands clutching at his back, her moans growing louder with each thrust. Marcus lowered his head to capture her lips in a passionate kiss, his tongue delving into her mouth with an intimacy that should have been mine.

"Oh, God, Marcus," she cried out, her voice breathless with pleasure. "Don't stop. Please don't stop."

"Never, baby," he groaned in response, his movements becoming more erratic, more desperate. "Never."

I didn't realize I was crying until I felt the hot tears sliding down my cheeks, leaving cool trails in their wake. I didn't dare make a sound, didn't dare breathe too loudly, terrified that they would discover me watching them, witnessing this betrayal that felt more intimate, more painful than any other.

Sophia wrapped her legs tighter around Marcus's waist, pulling him deeper inside her. "Harder," she demanded. "Fuck me harder, Marcus."

He obliged, his thrusts becoming more powerful, more relentless. The headboard began to bang against the wall in a steady rhythm that matched the frantic beating of my heart. I could see the muscles in his back tensing with each movement, could hear his breathing growing more ragged, more uneven.

"Come for me, baby," he urged, his voice thick with desire. "Come with me."

She finally cried out as her orgasm washed over her, her body shuddering beneath his. Marcus followed moments later, his own release marked by a guttural groan that seemed to tear at my very soul.

They collapsed against each other, sweaty and spent, their bodies still joined in the aftermath of their passion. I watched as Marcus rolled off her, pulling her into his arms, as their bodies still tangled in the sheets that were now a testament to their infidelity. He kissed her forehead, a gesture so tender, so intimate, that it felt like a physical blow to my stomach. That was the gesture he used to give me after we made love, before the distance between us had grown into an unbridgeable chasm.

"You were amazing," he murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction.

Sophia laughed softly, a sound that was both beautiful and cruel. "I try," she replied, her fingers tracing patterns on his chest. "But you're not so bad yourself, Mr. Thorne."

I couldn't bear to watch another moment of their post-coital bliss. With a silent sob that caught in my throat, I backed away from the door, pulling it quietly closed behind me. The click of the latch sounded unnaturally loud in the hushed corridor, and I froze, terrified that I had been discovered. When no one came to investigate, I turned and fled, my bare feet silent on the plush carpet as I raced toward the elevator.

The ride down was a descent into hell. I stared at my reflection in the polished steel doors, a stranger in a red silk gown who looked like she was attending a glamorous party instead of returning home from the scene of her own heart's destruction. When the doors opened, I stumbled out into the lobby, my vision blurred by tears that I refused to let fall until I was safely away from prying eyes.

The doorman was still there, his expression now tinged with concern.

"Ma'am? Are you alright? Do you need a cab?"

I could only nod, my throat too tight to form words. He must have seen something in my face, some shadow of the devastation that was tearing me apart because he simply nodded back and whistled for a taxi, opening the door with the same deference he had shown when I arrived. The difference was that this time, I felt like I was fleeing a crime scene rather than returning to a life of privilege.