The Mistress

“You’re overthinking the cerulean again, Vic. Just look at the way the light hits the garden—nature already did the work for you, stop staring at the sunlight and eat. Your coffee is reaching that tragic stage of lukewarm” I pulled my gaze away from the floor-to-ceiling glass panes of our breakfast nook, the morning sun casting a halo around the man sitting across from me. Daniel looked every bit the ‘Perfect Son’ the business journals obsessed over. His charcoal suit was crisp, his silk tie was knotted with mathematical precision, and his smile—warm, steady, and utterly devoted—was directed entirely at me. “I can’t help it, Dan,” I said, leaning back as a maid placed a plate of poached eggs and smoked salmon in front of me. “The Amalfi series needs to be perfect. The gallery is expecting a masterpiece, not just a landscape.” “You are the masterpiece, Vic,” Dan replied, his voice a rich, comforting baritone. He reached across the marble table, his fingers grazing the back of my hand

The flashes were blinding. Every time the heavy oak doors of the gallery swung open, another wave of high-society elite poured in, their eyes darting between the canvases on the walls and the couple standing in the center of the room. “Smile, Hon. The Tatler photographer is looking this way,” Dan whispered, his hand sliding firmly around my waist. I leaned into him, my body performing the practiced tilt of a woman who was cherished. Dan was in his element. He was the “Proud Husband” today, dressed in a midnight-blue velvet blazer that made him look regal. He didn’t just stand by me; he curated the space around me. He was the one explaining the brushwork of my Amalfi series to a group of senators, as if the art were a joint venture we had built together. “You look breathtaking tonight, Vic,” he murmured against my ear as the cameras clicked. “Everyone is talking about you. Our name has never looked better.” “Our name,” I echoed softly. I looked at the painting behind us—the one I ha

“I’m still wearing that pink lipstick. Come back to me.” The words glowed against the darkness of our bedroom, searing themselves into my retinas. I was frozen, my hand hovering over the nightstand where Dan’s phone sat like a ticking time bomb. It was 2:14 AM. The world outside the Blackwood-Sy estate was silent, but inside this room, the air felt like it was vibrating with the force of a thousand lies. Beside me, Dan was the picture of tranquility. His chest rose and fell in a slow, rhythmic cadence, his features softened by sleep. In this light, he looked like the man I fell in love with—the savior, the protector, the angel who had pulled me from the wreckage of my past. But the blue light of the notification revealed the truth: the angel was a lie. The sender was just a single letter. “M.” My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic, trapped bird. It’s real. The scent of lilies on his neck, the gold tube in the seat crack, the way he squeezed my wrist until it bruised—it wasn’

“I’m just going in for a quick document signing, Vic. Why don’t you wait in the car? It’ll be ten minutes, tops.” Dan’s voice had been so smooth earlier that morning, so effortless in its deceit. He had kissed my cheek, smelling of sandalwood and that crisp, ironed-linen scent that used to mean safety. I had nodded, playing the part of the dutiful, tired wife, watching him adjust his tie in the rearview mirror before he stepped out into the humid Manila heat and disappeared into the glass-and-steel monolith that was the Blackwood Corporate Headquarters. But the “spy” didn’t stay in the car. I waited exactly three minutes before I stepped out, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I pulled my sunglasses lower and wrapped a silk scarf loosely around my head—a costume for a woman who was becoming a stranger to herself. The lobby of the HQ was a cathedral of power. High ceilings, polished granite, and security guards with faces made of stone. I tucked myself into a co

“Focus the lens, Vic. Don’t let your hands shake. This is the only way the truth stays true.” Sophie’s voice was a low, urgent hum in the dark cabin of her SUV. We were parked across the street from a high-end boutique hotel—the kind of place where the privacy is bought with six-figure nightly rates and the valets are paid to have selective amnesia. The streetlights of Makati flickered outside, casting long, distorted shadows against the dashboard. I clutched the heavy DSLR camera, the cold metal body feeling like a weapon in my hands. My palms were sweating against the leather grip. I looked through the viewfinder, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. Then, the silver sedan pulled up. I held my breath. The valet opened the door, and Dan stepped out. He looked impeccable in his charcoal suit, the very image of a hard-working executive ending a long day. But he didn’t head for the lobby alone. He walked to the passenger side and opened the door. The woman stepped ou