The Second Wife's Revenge

The doorbell rang at 8:47 PM on a Tuesday, and with it, my entire life shattered.

I know the exact time because I was staring at the oven clock, watching my husband's dinner dry out for the third time that week. The coq au vin. His favorite, the one I'd spent four hours preparing, the one that was supposed to remind him of our honeymoon in Provence. It was turning into expensive leather in a Le Creuset pot that cost more than my first car.

My phone sat on the marble counter, screen dark. Three unanswered calls. Two texts, both read but not replied to.

Flynn had left his office at 6:15. His assistant confirmed it when I called, her voice carefully neutral. The drive took twenty minutes. He was two hours and twelve minutes late.

I touched the string of pearls at my throat. A gift from Flynn. Like almost everything I wore these days.

The cashmere sweater in the exact shade of beige he'd mentioned he liked. The honey blonde hair I maintained every six weeks, even though I'd been auburn before we met. Even the pale pink nail polish felt like a concession. The brightest color he didn't comment on with that slight frown.

The penthouse stretched around me. All white walls and floor-to-ceiling windows. Glass and chrome and cold perfection. Modern art Flynn had chosen hung on the walls.

Not a single photograph anywhere.

I'd noticed that once, early on. But he'd said something about preferring to look forward, not back. And I'd let it go.

I let a lot of things go.

The doorbell rang and I jumped, my hand flying to my collarbone. The scar there. Small and faded. It always drew my touch when I was nervous.

I didn't even remember how I'd gotten it.

Relief flooded through me. Probably just a delivery. The doorman screened everyone, but packages came up all the time.

I caught my reflection in the hallway mirror and automatically smoothed my hair. Checked my makeup.

Habit.

I opened the door without looking through the peephole.

The woman standing there was tall. Maybe five-eight in her Louboutin heels. I noticed the red soles first, then traveled up.

Designer dress. Chanel, current season. At least eight thousand dollars. I knew because I'd looked at it online last week.

Platinum blonde hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail. Sharp blue eyes that locked onto mine with an intensity that made me want to step back.

A Cartier Love bracelet circled her wrist. Real, not fake. I could tell.

She was pregnant. Three, maybe four months. The kind of belly you couldn't hide in a fitted dress.

Her left hand trembled slightly where it rested on her stomach.

"Hello." Her voice was clear. Controlled. "I'm Sienna Lancaster. Flynn's wife."

The floor tilted under my feet.

Time did that thing where it slows down and speeds up at once. I heard the hum of the city twenty-three floors below. Smelled her perfume.

Chanel No. 5.

The same one I wore. The same one Flynn had given me last Christmas. The same perfume he said reminded him of elegance.

My mind went into overdrive, cataloging details like it always did when I panicked.

She'd said "Lancaster." Possessive.

She'd said "wife." Present tense. Not ex-wife.

Her hand was on her belly. Protective.

Her eyes were red-rimmed under the perfect makeup. She'd been crying.

"I'm sorry." My voice came out distant. Mechanical. "There must be a mistake."

Her smile was bitter. Knowing.

"I wish there was."

"I'm Flynn's wife." The words felt stupid coming out of my mouth. "We've been married for three years."

"Seven years for me." She shifted her weight. I noticed her other hand was shaking too. "Though he told you we were divorced, I assume?"

My throat closed.

He hadn't said divorced. He'd said "I lost someone I loved." Said it only once, early on, when I'd asked about past relationships. His eyes had gone distant and sad. I'd felt terrible for asking.

I'd never brought it up again.

"May I come in?" Sienna asked. "Or would you prefer to have this conversation in the hallway where your neighbors can hear?"

I couldn't move. Couldn't think. Couldn't make my body do anything useful.

She walked past me anyway.

Just walked right in. Like she owned the place.

Which, I was beginning to realize, maybe she did.

I followed her numbly into the living room. Watching as she moved without hesitation to the white leather sofa.

She sat down like she belonged there. Like she'd sat there before.

I remained standing. Every muscle in my body screamed at me to run.

She was wearing the same perfume. The same perfume Flynn bought for me.

Her wedding ring was different from mine. Platinum where mine was white gold. But I recognized the designer. The same jeweler where Flynn had taken me to pick out my engagement ring.

Though now I wondered if I'd actually picked it. Or if he'd steered me toward it.

Her hands kept shaking. She pressed them together in her lap, trying to still them.

We were both terrified.

That realization hit me hard. Whatever was happening, she was as scared as I was.

"I have proof." Her voice was quiet. "Do you want to see it, or should we wait for Flynn?"

"Show me."

I didn't recognize my own voice.

She pulled out her phone with those trembling hands. Tapped the screen a few times. Then held it out to me.

I had to step closer to see. Had to look at the photos she'd pulled up.

A wedding photo. Flynn in a tuxedo. This woman in a wedding gown. Both of them laughing.

The date stamp in the corner said seven years ago.

I swiped.

A honeymoon photo. Turquoise water. White buildings.

Santorini.

Flynn had promised to take me there for our anniversary. "Someday," he'd said.

Another swipe. Anniversary dinner. Candlelight. Them holding hands across a table I recognized.

The same restaurant where Flynn had proposed to me.

Christmas photos. Beach photos. Flynn asleep in bed. Intimate and private. The kind of photo you only take of someone you love.

The last photo was dated eighteen months ago. Flynn and Sienna at a restaurant. Her hand on his cheek.

Eighteen months ago, Flynn and I were already married.

My eyes caught on details. The watch on Flynn's wrist in the anniversary photo. The one I'd thought I'd given him for our first Christmas together.

But here he was, wearing it years before we met.

His smile in these photos was the same smile he gave me. Nothing special about it. Nothing unique.

Just his smile. The one I'd thought was mine.

"Marriage certificate." Sienna's voice was soft. She swiped to a document. "No divorce decree. I checked."

Legal. Official. The seal of New York State clearly visible.

The sound of a key in the lock made my whole body tense.

"Aria?" Flynn's voice carried from the hallway. Warm and familiar. "Sorry I'm late, darling. Traffic was—"

He appeared in the doorway to the living room and stopped dead.

His face cycled through expressions too fast for me to catch them all.

Shock. Or was he performing shock?

Then something careful and blank slid over his features like a mask.

"Sienna."

Just her name. One word, loaded with a thousand things I couldn't read.

But I could see how they looked at each other. Could see the history between them. Intimate and complicated and real.

My husband knew this woman. Knew her well.

This wasn't a mistake. This wasn't a misunderstanding.

This was real.

"That's impossible." I heard myself say it. My voice distant and mechanical. Like it belonged to someone else. "I'm Flynn's wife."

Sienna's smile was bitter and knowing. Like she'd heard these exact words from herself once.

Her hand moved unconsciously to her belly. Protective. Maternal. Real.

"So am I," she said quietly.

And in that moment, watching my husband's face cycle through emotions I couldn't read, I realized we were both telling the truth.

Which meant everything Flynn Lancaster had ever told me was a lie.