My Husband’s Secretly Cheating with Another Woman (Her Marriage in Crisis #80)

1. Lily

— ? —

Lily

The champagne tastes like disappointment tonight.

I take another sip anyway, letting the bubbles fizz against my tongue while I watch my husband work the room. Edward moves through the Burton Foundation gala like he was born for this - which, technically, he was.

His hand finds the small of Miranda Xu’s back, lingering there three seconds longer than appropriate. He laughs at something she says, head thrown back, teeth gleaming under the crystal chandeliers.

I can’t remember the last time he laughed like that with me.

A crush of people fills this gilded ballroom, silk gowns rustling against marble floors, designer suits cutting sharp silhouettes against the champagne glow.

The ice sculpture behind me, a ridiculous swan that cost more than my childhood foster home’s annual budget, is slowly melting, rivulets of water pooling on white linen like tears.

Everyone who matters in this city is here tonight.

Everyone except me.

“You’re slouching, Lily.”

Victoria Burton glides past in a cloud of Chanel No. 5 and casual cruelty. My mother-in-law doesn’t break stride, doesn’t wait for a response. She never does. Three years of marriage to her son, and she still looks at me like I’m a stain on her Persian rug.

I straighten my spine automatically - muscle memory now, the way my body has learned to respond to her voice like a dog to a whistle.

The champagne dress Edward selected hangs on my frame, modest neckline and muted color, designed to make me fade into the wallpaper.

I used to wear red. Used to wear yellow sundresses and bright blue scarves. I can’t remember when I stopped.

Actually, I can. It was the night Victoria told me that “appropriate wives don’t draw attention away from their husbands.”

I believed her. I believed everything they told me.

“Lovely party,” a woman I vaguely recognize murmurs in my direction before her eyes slide past me to someone more interesting.

Story of my life.

I set my glass on a passing tray. My fingers are trembling slightly - when did that start? - and I press them flat against my thighs.

“Excuse me.”

The balcony doors are propped open, letting in cool October air that smells like dying leaves and freedom.

I slip through, grateful for the darkness, for the silence, for the chance to breathe without wondering if my posture is acceptable, if my smile is warm enough, if I’m performing the role of Edward Burton’s wife to everyone’s satisfaction.

I lean against the stone railing and let the cold seep through my thin dress. Below, the garden sprawls in manicured perfection - rose bushes trimmed to mathematical precision, hedges shaped into the Burton family crest. Even the nature here is controlled.

That’s when I hear it.

Edward’s voice, drifting up from somewhere beneath the balcony. But it’s not the voice I know - the clipped, impatient tone he uses with me, the barely-tolerant sighs when I ask about his day, the way he says my name like it’s a burden. This voice is different.

Tender. Warm. Laughing.

“Kiss the babies for me. I’ll be home soon, love.”

My champagne flute slips from my fingers.

It shatters against marble with a sound like my heart cracking open, and I press my hand against my mouth to trap the noise that wants to escape.

“Tell them Daddy’s bringing presents,” he continues, oblivious to my destruction above him. “Yes, the purple one for Sophie and the dinosaur for James. I know, I know. You’re right - I spoil them. But they’re my whole world.” A pause. A soft laugh. “You’re my whole world. I love you too.”

Daddy.

Babies.

I love you too.

I press myself against the wall, the cold stone biting through my dress. My chest constricts like someone’s wrapped piano wire around my ribs and started pulling. I can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can’t process the impossible thing I’ve just heard.

Edward has never said those words to me. Not once. Not even at our wedding, when I stood there in borrowed white and waited for him to say something that would make me feel like I hadn’t just made the biggest mistake of my life.

He’d cleared his throat. Said “I do” like he was signing a contract. Kissed me for exactly two seconds while the cameras flashed.

That night, in our honeymoon suite, he’d turned away from me and said he had emails to answer.

Below, Edward ends his call and walks back toward the ballroom, whistling. Actually whistling, his steps light and easy, like a man who loves his life.

I don’t move for seventeen minutes. I count each one, watching the second hand on my delicate gold watch, a gift from Victoria that I now realize was less a welcome to the family and more a collar around my neck.

When I finally force myself to move, my legs feel like they belong to someone else.