She Took My Husband. I Married A Mafia Provider (Betrayal Trading Up #9)

Chapter 1

One

Caroline

“The life you thought you knew just ended. “

I sighed deeply.

It was exactly six a.m., the sprinkler system kicked on and hissed my hydrangeas awake. I should’ve been asleep, but I’ve had the same internal clock since Adele was born, so there I was—barefoot in the grass, coffee mug in hand, deadheading roses like a bored suburban cliché.

Every single time I glance around our home which was now officially mortgage-free, according to the framed certificate on the wall, my husband, Richard made as a joke—I still expect to see the old siding or cracked driveway.

Instead, there’s the blue paint I picked out and the porch swing I convinced Richard to hang even though he said it would make us look “geriatric.”

Whatever that means!

It’s not that we live in a freaking palace. It’s that after twenty-five years, the house has more of our DNA in it than any member of our actual family.

I knelt in the flowerbed, earth jammed under my fingernails, and thought about our anniversary.

Silver, which seems impossible, since I can still remember the rusty Toyota hatchback Richard drove me home in after our first date.

Adele would text soon, pretending to have forgotten, but then send a dumb meme or the same e-card she’s used every year since she was twelve.

I could practically write her message myself: “Congrats on not murdering each other for another year.”

I could’ve done without the reminder that my only child lived four states away, but she called more than most kids did.

She sent boxes of gourmet brownies with post-it notes stuck to every one: “Eat this before Dad finds it” and “NOT for company.” I missed her enough to save her voicemails, even the ones where she’d obviously been running between classes, breathless and shouting over traffic.

But it was good, the distance. It forced me and Richard to actually look at each other again.

He was still asleep when I came in, drooling into the pillow and snoring like an off-brand chainsaw.

I wanted to climb in next to him, curl up and be warm for five minutes, but instead I started in on the morning’s emails.

Spam, mostly. A bill from the health club I hadn’t visited since March.

A message from my mother titled: “Remember to call the doctor.”

I deleted it, sipped my coffee, and stared at the to-do list on my phone.

For a woman with no real job, I was always busy.

I ran book club, organized the neighborhood’s block party, volunteered at St. Catherine’s every Tuesday, and still mCarolineged to remember every birthday of every person I’d ever met, which is how Richard explained my “compulsive” card-buying habit.

Our kitchen was the one room in the house I’d always wanted to change but never did.

The counters were a weird off-white Formica that stained if, you just looked at it, and the cabinets stuck if you didn’t slam them.

I pulled down the “special” French press, the one we got as a wedding gift and only used on anniversaries or days I needed to convince Richard I was still classy.

He appeared behind me like he always did, wrapping his arms around my waist, his face unshaven and creased from sleep. “Happy anniversary, Mrs. Carter.”

“Happy anniversary, Dr. Carter,” I said, tipping my head back against his chest.

He sniffed my neck. “You smell like mulch.”

I swatted his hand, but he just laughed, poured himself a mug, and sat at the counter in his ratty Michigan sweatshirt.

We didn’t do presents. After year fifteen, Richard declared it “unnecessary capitalism” and I agreed, mostly because he was terrible at gifts.

(A juicer. A snow shovel. A “romantic” copy of the complete IRS tax code, which to be fair was the year he made partner, but still.) But I’d planned a dinner anyway—filet mignon, his favorite, with some $40 pinot noir I’d hidden behind the kale.

He didn’t know it, but I’d made a reservation at La Mer, the overpriced French place where we went for our fifth anniversary and got food poisoning. It was supposed to be funny.

“Are you working late tonight?” I asked.

He didn’t look up from his phone. “Lunch meeting ran long yesterday, so probably.” He finished his coffee in one gulp, set the mug down, and went upstairs to shower.

I checked my phone. Three missed calls from Mom, a text from Adele with a GIF of a penguin falling down stairs, and a group thread from the book club ladies. Apparently, Sandra had been kicked out of yoga for correcting the instructor’s Sanskrit. I snorted and wrote back: “Namaste or GTFO.”

Outside, the sun finally made it over the neighbor’s roof.

The tomatoes needed to be staked, and the basil was trying to strangle the rosemary.

I pulled on gloves and went back out, only stopping when the mailman—same guy as always, probably younger than Adele—stuck a manila envelope in the box. No return address.

I opened it on the porch, expecting some new medical bill, but instead there was a typed note. Just my name, and one sentence: “Congratulations on 25 years.”

Weird, but not threatening. Maybe from one of the other moms at St. Catherine’s. Maybe a joke from the book club. I shrugged, dropped it in the recycling, and went back inside.

The rest of the morning vanished in a blur of cleaning, prepping, and double-checking every ingredient for dinner.

I even polished the wine glasses, the crystal ones Richard’s mother gave us even though she never liked me.

I lined up the silverware with a ruler. I plucked flowers from the backyard and arranged them in a vase, which looked perfect, so Martha Stewart I took a photo and texted it to Adele.

She replied: “Stop being an overachiever. Tell Dad I said congrats.”

By three, I was ready. By four, I was bored.

I poured myself exactly three ounces of pinot noir, sat at the kitchen table, and Googled “anniversary traditions second act of life.” Most of what came up was boring.

Travel. Cruises. Something called “sensual couple’s retreats” that made me laugh so hard I spit wine onto my phone.

Around five, I heard Richard’s car pull into the driveway. He came in, tie already loosened, looking tired but happy. I watched him stand in the doorway, briefcase in one hand, and I knew—this is as good as it gets. This is what we worked so hard for.

“Smells incredible in here,” he said, kissing me on the forehead. “Should I open the wine?”

I handed him the bottle and let him struggle with the corkscrew. It was one of the few things he wasn’t good at, which made me love him more.

We sat down at the kitchen table, candles lit, the “good” plates out. I told him about the weird envelope; he said it was probably the HOA being passive-aggressive about our mailbox paint. We ate, we laughed, we gossiped about the neighbors. It was all so normal. And perfect.

As we cleared the plates, Richard reached across the table and took my hand. “I know I always say we don’t do gifts,” he said, voice a little shaky, “but I got you something anyway.”

He handed me a small blue box. Inside was a delicate silver bracelet, the kind you see in magazine ads but never actually buy for yourself.

I stared at him, stunned. “Richard, it’s beautiful. But—”

He squeezed my fingers. “I just wanted you to know I appreciate everything you do for us. For me. For Adele.”

For a second, my eyes burned. I pretended to check the clasp so he wouldn’t see.

We finished the wine. We sat there in silence, not awkward, just full. I leaned my head on his shoulder and closed my eyes, thinking how lucky I was.

At that exact moment, the phone rang. I checked the screen: Mom. Again. I silenced it and slid my hand into Richard’s. He squeezed it back, hard.

I had no idea that less than twenty-four hours later, I’d be the one who couldn’t let go.

We didn’t usually eat dessert on weeknights, but I’d made one anyway.

Dark chocolate mousse, the kind that takes forever but is worth it, with fresh raspberries on top and just a dusting of powdered sugar because Richard always said whipped cream was “wasted calories.” I remember thinking, as I set the little glass dishes on the counter, that he looked tired.

Not just end-of-the-day tired, but the kind where your whole face droops and your shoulders cave in.

He sat at the table with his laptop open, ignoring the emails and just staring at the screen saver—a rotating slideshow of family photos I’d uploaded a hundred years ago.

There was one of Adele with a missing front tooth, her eyes squinted up and cheeks red from sledding.

Another of us at Niagara Falls, soaked to the bone.

He just sat there, watching the faces flick by like he was waiting for something terrible to appear.

I’d barely set the mousse down when he spoke. “Can you sit with me for a minute?”

His voice was so normal it made my heart lurch. I wiped my hands on a dish towel and sat across from him, trying to decide if this was going to be one of those Serious Conversations about my mother’s health or the neighbor’s property line dispute.

He pushed the laptop aside, folded his hands, and looked at me. “Caroline, I need you to really listen.”

That’s when I knew. Not what he was about to say—just that it was going to be bad. It was the same tone he used when Adele crashed her bike and we weren’t sure if she’d broken her wrist. Or the time I left a candle burning and almost torched the laundry room.

He reached across the table, took my hand, and started to speak, but then stopped. His wedding ring glinted under the overhead light, and all I could think about was how it looked next to mine, two bands of white gold bought at a strip mall in ‘96.

“Caroline, I—” He closed his eyes, took a breath. “There’s no easy way to say this.”

I waited. I waited so long the clock on the microwave ticked forward a minute.

“I’ve been seeing someone,” he said.

I laughed. Actually, truly, involuntarily laughed. “Richard, if this is a joke—”

“It’s not.” His hand was still warm around mine, but he let go, wiped his palms on his jeans. “It’s not a joke.”

I felt my brain tilt, like someone had yanked the rug out from under a table and all the cups and plates went sliding toward the edge. “You’re—what? Who?”

He didn’t answer. His eyes went to the kitchen window, where my perfect vase of backyard flowers sat, and then to the counter, where the anniversary card he’d given me lay open, still signed “all my love, now and forever.”

“It’s someone you know,” he said, voice barely audible. “I’m so sorry, Caroline.”

That was when I knew. My mouth filled with the taste of battery acid.

“Don’t,” I said, but he said it anyway.

“Madison. Madison Brooks.”

Holy freaking hell—

For a second, I thought he meant Adele’s friend who used to work for us, the one who wore too much eyeliner and always drank all our Diet Coke.

Then I remembered: Madison, the roommate.

The one who came to Thanksgiving. The one with the perfect teeth and the laugh that filled the whole house.

The one who, after dinner, helped me do dishes and asked me about my garden and how I kept the hydrangeas alive through the winter.

I started shaking. “She’s—she’s Adele’s age.”

He nodded. “I know. It’s—there’s no excuse.”

I wanted to scream. Instead, I stood up so fast my chair almost fell backwards. I looked at him, really looked, and I realized for the first time that he was old. Not in a sad way, just in the way people get old together and don’t notice it until someone holds up a mirror.

I tried to think of something to say, but my throat had closed up. I could hear the thudding of my own pulse in my ears. I remembered the envelope in the mailbox this morning. Congratulations on 25 years.

It felt like the most pathetic joke in the world.

Richard stood up and tried to come closer, but I put the table between us. “You’re leaving me. For a young one.”

He flinched. “That’s not—she’s an adult. Caroline, I never planned for this to happen.”

I huffed.

“Well, what does Adele know?”

He shook his head. “Nothing. She can’t know. Not yet. I—Madison is pregnant.”

For a second, the room became a freaking blur. I grabbed the edge of the table to keep from toppling over.

“She’s what?”

He swallowed. “We found out last week.”

The word “we” made me want to break every dish in the kitchen, but all I could do was laugh again, a horrible, guttural noise that sounded like it belonged to someone else.

“Twenty-five years, Richard. Twenty-five years. You couldn’t even wait until the ink was dry on the mortgage papers.”

He said nothing. He stood there, looking at his hands, then at the mousse I’d made, then at me.

“I’m so sorry, Caroline. I know there’s no fixing this. But I’m going to do right by her. By the baby.”

I wanted to ask, What about me? What about Adele?

What about the life we built? But I couldn’t form the words.

My mind was a flip book of every dumb, happy moment from our marriage: the cottage up north, the night Adele was born, the time we both got food poisoning and held hands on the bathroom floor.

I waited for the screaming, the throwing of plates, the dramatic storming out. But instead, I just stood there. My hands shook so badly I had to tuck them under my arms.

Richard cleared his throat, and his eyes were wet. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but I’ll do anything to make this right. Anything I can, Caroline.”

He didn’t seem to realize the only way to make this right was to go back in time and not be the sort of man who slept with his daughter’s friend.

The next hour was a blur of words I don’t remember. He talked, I listened. He asked if I wanted him to leave, and when I said nothing, he took that as a yes.

He packed an overnight bag, his toothbrush, his shaving kit. He left the mousse untouched in the fridge. He closed the front door behind him and then opened it again, like he’d forgotten something, but then he left for real.

I stood in the kitchen, staring at the two bowls of chocolate mousse.

I waited to feel angry, or sad, or anything at all.

Instead, I just stood there, spoon in hand, eating the mousse by myself while the sky outside turned purple and the sprinkler system clicked on again, hissing into the empty night.

That’s how I found out: twenty-five years, and all it took was one sentence to make everything before and after seem like two different lives.

And I had no idea how to start the second one. What will happen now?