Five years into my marriage, my husband’s mistress was pregnant. I didn’t throw a single plate this time. I didn’t scream until my throat was raw. Instead, I drove to her rundown apartment in a forgotten part of the city and brought her home. She was ten years younger than me, with wide, dark eyes and a gracefully sculpted nose. A ghost of me at twenty. Her hand hovered protectively over her belly. “Ma’am,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I can have the baby and then I’ll disappear. I won’t ask for anything, I swear.” I reached out and smoothed a stray strand of hair from her forehead. Don’t be afraid, I thought. I’ll help you take my place as soon as possible. After all, if I waited any longer, the brilliant college boy I had my eye on would be leaving the country. 1 By the time some well-meaning informant slipped the news of Stella’s pregnancy into my hands, she was already three months along. It wasn’t that Donovan had set out to humiliate me. Not this time. It was just that three months ago, on my birthday, we’d had a fight. I’d said things I couldn’t take back, things designed to cut deep, and he had stormed out of our Fifth Avenue apartment in a fury. He must have ended up with her—a girl so desperate to pay for her mother’s medical bills that she’d do just about anything. I don’t know the sordid details of that night. All I saw was the shirt Donovan discarded the next morning. Near the hem, almost invisible against the white cotton, were tiny blossoms of blood. She wasn’t the first substitute he’d found for me. I didn’t give it a second thought. And because of that, I never knew she could be pregnant. The black town car wound its way toward the city’s edges, into a neighborhood of brick tenements and forgotten factories. The farther we went, the deeper the frown etched itself onto my face. “Arthur,” I said, my voice quiet. “Didn’t Mr. Hayes buy this girl an apartment?” Arthur, our driver for the past decade, met my eyes in the rearview mirror. His expression was carefully blank. “He did, Mrs. Hayes. She wouldn’t take it.” A flicker of recognition. That stubborn pride sounded a little like me, a long time ago. When we arrived, my frown tightened. The buildings were packed together so tightly they seemed to be leaning on each other for support, blotting out the sun. She lived on the eighth floor of a walk-up with a narrow, suffocating staircase. Climbing those stairs, one by one, left me breathless, a strange feeling for someone who spent three mornings a week with a personal trainer. The air was thick with the scent of damp and decay, a suffocating closeness that was, in a strange way, achingly familiar. Apartment 801 had a peeling green door. I knocked, and a moment later, it opened to reveal a girl in a simple white dress, her long hair falling over her shoulders. She wore no makeup, but she was beautiful, with wide, startled eyes like a fawn caught in headlights. The color drained from her face as she recognized me. She took an involuntary step back. “Mrs. Hayes.” I gave a cool, practiced nod. “Hello.” The single word made her flinch. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?” Stella blinked, then scrambled to the side, holding the door open. The apartment was a tiny one-bedroom, so small that the master bathroom in my own home was larger than her entire living space. But it was cozy. A lace coverlet was draped over the sagging sofa, a small television sat on a milk crate, and on a little end table were a few handmade trinkets and a framed photograph of Donovan. Donovan at twenty-one, beaming on a mountain summit, the wind in his hair. I took that picture. I thought he’d lost it. To think he’d brought it here. Stella followed my gaze and quickly moved to block the photo. “I—I’m sorry. Mr. Hayes, he… he made me put it there.” Ten years together. I knew every little game Donovan played. He saw Stella, with her face that was eighty percent mine and a temperament that was fifty percent the girl he fell in love with, and he was trying to claw his way back to the past. I never understood his obsession with it. I smiled faintly and sat on her sofa. “You’re pregnant.” Stella froze. Raw fear bloomed in her eyes. “...Yes.” “But—but it was an accident. I swear, I didn’t know this would happen.” “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Hayes. I never wanted to hurt you, I never wanted to come between you. Please, don’t hate me.” Tears welled and spilled, tracing clean paths down her cheeks. She was heartbreakingly lovely when she cried. “I’ll get rid of it,” she sobbed. “I’ll leave, I’ll disappear. Please, just… don’t do anything to my mother. She’s sick, she needs me.” I rose and walked over to her, gently touching her cheek. Her skin was so soft, so new. “Why are you crying?” I murmured. “I never said you had to get an abortion.” 2 I brought Stella back to the Hayes estate. On the drive out to Greenwich, Arthur kept glancing at me in the rearview mirror, his mouth a tight line. “Mrs. Hayes, are you sure about this? Perhaps we should call Mr. Hayes first. He returns from his business trip in two days. He might… he might be angry.” “He won’t be.” More accurately, he wouldn’t dare. The car passed through the towering wrought-iron gates, navigated the long, winding drive through manicured gardens, and stopped before the imposing front entrance. Stella was trembling like a cornered animal, clutching her stomach and sobbing into her hands. “Please, Mrs. Hayes, I’m begging you, just let me go. My mother has late-stage kidney disease. I’m trying to save money for her treatment.” “I never would have gone near your husband if it wasn’t for the money. I was wrong, I know I was wrong.” Her pleas were a jumbled, desperate mess. I just kept wiping her tears away. “Shh. It’s alright. I told you, I’m not going to hurt you.” Compared to the thirteen mistresses before her—all of them sharp, ambitious, and dripping with contempt—Stella was by far my favorite. That’s why I brought her here. I led her through the grand foyer, down a long marble hallway, and into the private wing of the estate. We took the internal elevator to the deepest, most secluded part of the compound. There, beside a serene reflecting pool, sat a woman with her eyes closed, meditating. A traditional Japanese-style pavilion rose behind her. I walked with Stella to her side. “Mother.” The woman’s eyes opened slowly. Eleanor Hayes. “Mm.” Her gaze, heavy and deliberate, shifted to me, a sharp glint in their depths. “Is this her?” “Yes.” “Have you had it checked?” “I have. It’s a boy.” “Good. See that she’s well taken care of.” “I will.” With that, I took Stella’s hand, bowed my head slightly, and led her away. By now, Stella had stopped crying. She just stared at me, her fear mixed with a profound confusion. “Mrs. Hayes… why did you bring me here?” 3 I genuinely liked this girl, so I answered her with a patience I rarely showed anyone anymore. “To make you official. You’re carrying a child. We can’t have you hiding in the shadows, can we?” Stella’s hand flew to her stomach. “I—I told you, I don’t want to take Mr. Hayes from you…” I cut her off with a gentle smile. “Let’s not talk about that. First, dinner.” It was clear Donovan had never taken her anywhere nice. The evening’s modest fifteen-course tasting menu left Stella utterly overwhelmed. By the end of it, she was clutching my hand like a lifeline, her eyes wide. “Mrs. Hayes, that prosciutto with the fig jam was incredible! And the way they did the eggplant… I’ve never tasted anything like it.” I watched her practically bounce with excitement, reminding her gently to be careful. She laughed, then her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Hayes. I grew up poor. I haven’t seen much of the world. I know I’m probably acting like a fool.” I just shook my head and smiled, reaching out to pat her head. “Do you like it?” I asked softly. “This kind of life.” Stella nodded without hesitation. “Yes.” Good, I thought. That makes this easier. I tucked her into a guest suite and waited until the lights were out. The house fell silent. I stood in the garden, breathing in the familiar, suffocating stillness of my life. The head housekeeper approached with my cigarettes and a lighter, her expression as conflicted as Arthur’s had been. “Ma’am, must you do this? I don’t think… I don’t think he really loves this girl.” “She’s young, that’s all. In every other way—education, background, poise—she can’t hold a candle to you.” “And what good has it done me?” I murmured, taking a long drag. “I’m still here, year after year, counting the days like a monk in a monastery.” A life of such exquisite, soul-crushing boredom. Perhaps it was seeing Stella, a living echo of my past, that made the memories surface. Tonight, for the first time in years, I allowed myself to remember. I remembered being a girl who didn’t know the meaning of hardship. My parents were farmers in Ohio. We were poor, but their love was rich. They spoke to each other with a kindness and respect that money could never buy. I was a good student, not brilliant, but good enough to earn a scholarship to NYU. And so, at twenty, when I met the Donovan Hayes—the campus royalty who walked through life like he owned it—I wasn’t scared or intimidated. It never once occurred to me that I wasn’t good enough for him. While every other girl was chasing him, I was trying to figure out what I’d do after graduation. Perhaps it was that indifference that caught his eye. He fell in love with me. He pursued me relentlessly. I didn’t care for money or expensive gifts. So he took a pottery class to make me a coffee mug, his large hands clumsy with the clay. I believed in equality, in partnership. I hated the stuffy, expensive restaurants he liked. So he learned to cook for me, blistering his hands in the process. To marry me, he went to war with his family. I never knew the full extent of what he endured. I only knew that he vanished for three months and returned thirty pounds lighter, his eyes red-rimmed and haunted. He just held me and said, “Evelyn, I can finally marry you.” He gave me a wedding that was the talk of New York, our photos plastered across the society pages for a week. And I, like a fool, believed we would love each other forever. 4 The cracks, of course, were there from the beginning. The first time he brought his family to meet mine. A convoy of black cars rolling up the gravel driveway of our small Ohio farmhouse. My parents, their faces weathered by the sun, their hands calloused from work, were terrified. They thought debt collectors had come. When they realized it was a proposal, they were ecstatic. My father offered Donovan one of his good cigars. My mother brought out the special-occasion tea she saved for holidays. I saw the flicker of discomfort in Donovan’s eyes. But he was well-bred, and he covered it smoothly, changing the subject. Sitting beside him, I saw the subtle clenching of his jaw, the slight wrinkle of his nose. He never lit my father’s cigar. The Hayes family staff didn’t touch a single cup of tea. At the time, I just thought, some things are different, and that’s okay. We didn’t have to force it. But I was naive. Those small moments were a map of the chasm that separated our worlds. As the years passed and the initial passion cooled, our different values began to tear us apart. The first time he cheated, my world collapsed. It wasn’t even a real affair. He was out with his friends, a pack of trust-fund heirs, all of them single. They were at some exclusive club, each with a model draped over them. Donovan was sitting alone, and one of them—Wes, his so-called best friend—grabbed a bottle girl and pushed her onto Donovan’s lap. He started to refuse, but then his eyes landed on her, and he stopped. Later, drunk, they ended up in a bathroom stall together. A muffled groan, the sound of a zipper. He handed her a wad of cash and told her to clean herself up. I was at home, fuming that he was late again, when an anonymous text came through with a picture. I drove to the club like a woman possessed. I saw him walking out of the men’s room just as the girl walked out of the women’s. That night, we had the fight of all fights. In front of all his friends, I clawed at his face, leaving red streaks down his cheek. A paparazzo caught the whole thing. It ended up on Page Six. Donovan paid a fortune to kill the story and didn’t come home for a month. But he did come back. He apologized, his pride making the words stick in his throat. It was probably the first time in his life he’d ever had to say sorry to anyone. I cried for days. The next morning, his mother, who had never liked me, gave me a look of pure ice. “You’d do well to learn your place, Evelyn.” I didn’t understand what she meant then. I did after the second affair. And the third. And the thirteenth. I cried over every single one. I made a scene every single time. Number thirteen surfaced the day before my birthday. I thought I was going to lose my mind. Number fourteen was Stella. This time, I didn’t cry. I brought her home. And Donovan, hearing the news while on his business trip, finally rushed back. 5 It was late when Donovan arrived. Stella and I were curled up on the sofa in our pajamas, watching television. She was a child, really. She loved Tom and Jerry. She was giggling, holding a bowl of fruit. “Evelyn, look! The cat is so dumb. How does he keep falling for the same tricks over and over?” Yes, I thought, a bitter smile touching my lips. How stupid. I laughed along with her, and when I looked up, I saw him. Donovan, standing in the doorway, his eyes burning holes in the placid scene. I hadn’t really looked at him in a long, long time. He hadn’t really looked at me, either. Up close, I could see the faint lines forming around his eyes. His gaze locked on Stella, his brow furrowing in rage. “Who the hell let you in here? Get out.” The girl in my arms flinched as if struck. I shot back, my voice dangerously calm. “Don’t yell. You’ll scare the baby.” Donovan’s jaw worked. He looked from me to her, speechless. Finally, he bit out, “Who says it’s my child? And even if it is, there are ways to handle it. She doesn’t have to have it.” The casual cruelty in his voice terrified Stella. I rubbed her back soothingly and told her to go to bed. She clutched at my sleeve, her eyes pleading. “It’s alright,” I murmured. “His bark is worse than his bite. Go on. Pregnant women need their sleep.” Stella finally scurried away, looking back every few steps. The sight seemed to break something in Donovan. He let out a harsh, incredulous laugh. “Well, congratulations. I have to hand it to you, Evelyn. Is this your new thing? Playing the magnanimous, long-suffering wife? Should I give you a round of applause?” I met his glare with a serene smile. “Donovan, you brought one woman after another into our lives. Weren’t you just testing my limits?” “I know how this world works. Your friends, your business partners, your father, your uncles… they all have their perfect families at home and a string of diversions on the side.” “You used thirteen women to grind down my pride, to break me. Wasn’t this always the goal? Well, I admit it. You won.” For so long, I truly didn’t understand. The man who had once looked at me like I was the only thing in the world, who had been willing to fight everyone for me—how had he become this monster? It wasn’t until the day before my birthday, with mistress number thirteen, that his actions finally slapped me awake. So when I spoke those words of surrender, Donovan looked genuinely stunned. He stared at me, his lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes a storm of unreadable emotions. “Three months ago you were slitting your wrists in the bathroom. Now you’re telling me you’ve seen the light?”
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