Arrested by His Side Chick

1 My husband was arrested again. His mistress called the cops on him. When I got the call to post his bail, I found her at the station, draped in one of his dress shirts, the hem barely grazing the tops of her thighs. She jabbed a finger in my face. “You’re pathetic,” she sneered. “Such a washed-up housewife you can’t even keep your own husband on a leash. I’m so sick of him clinging to me.” My husband, Alex, immediately stepped in front of her, a shield against the wife he expected to fly into a rage. He shot me a look of pure annoyance, bracing himself for the usual scene where I’d try to claw her eyes out. But this time, I didn’t even bother to look up. I signed the release papers the officer handed me and turned to leave. Alex froze for a second, stunned. He chased after me, his fingers clamping around my wrist like a vise. He stared into my face, searching for something, anything. “Are you even my wife anymore?” he demanded. My eyes were flat, empty. Not for long, I thought. … The drive to the police station had taken over half an hour, stuck in gridlocked traffic. I’d spent the time stewing in the cramped, dark car, my mind churning with violent fantasies of how I would ruin them, how I would finally force that woman out of our lives for good. But then, the sky, which had been overcast for days, suddenly broke. A sliver of sun cut through the gloom. I rolled down my window. In the park across the street, children were chasing each other through a playground. A teenage girl laughed as she tossed a handful of golden ginkgo leaves into the air, letting them rain down around her like confetti. In that single, quiet moment, it hit me. Wasting all my time and energy on a man who’d already left me in his heart… it was utterly pointless. Alex was still standing there, looking lost. Chloe, annoyed at being ignored, pulled down the collar of her shirt, revealing a constellation of angry red marks on her shoulder. “Officer,” she whined, her voice dripping with false victimhood. “He held me captive in his bed for days. He kept saying he’d die without me. Look what he did to me. This is kidnapping!” Her eyes flicked to me, a glint of triumph in them. “I have a witness. His wife knows all about it.” My nails dug into my palms. Three days ago, my mother’s condition took a turn for the worse. She gripped my hand, her voice a fragile whisper, telling me her last wish was to see Alex and me happy together one last time. She kept asking why he hadn’t visited, why it had been so long. She said she couldn’t bear the thought of leaving me all alone in this world. I called Alex’s phone, again and again and again. My mother took her last breath in my arms just as the call finally connected. My voice was shredded from crying. “Alex,” I choked out, “my mom is gone.” But the voice that answered wasn’t his. It was Chloe, giggling. “Well, congratulations,” she chirped. “But Alex is a little busy right now. He’s like a guard dog, terrified I’ll sneak off.” That night, I held my mother’s cold, stiff body and cried until there were no tears left. All I had left for Alex was a reservoir of pure, unadulterated hate. Chloe seemed to relish the broken look on my face. She crossed her arms, sizing me up. “Honey, playing the victim won’t keep a man.” She smirked. “But I’ll give you a chance to get back in his good graces. Get on your knees and beg. If you do, I’ll drop the charges.” A bitter laugh escaped my lips. I turned to the officer. “I’d like to report Alex Walker for soliciting prostitution.” Chloe’s eyes widened. “You take that back, you bitch!” she shrieked. I let my gaze drift over her, taking in the Cartier bracelet, the limited-edition Hermès bag, the Harry Winston sapphire necklace. “He bought you all this after you slept with him for three days,” I said, my voice dangerously calm. “You aren’t married. So what is it, if not a transaction?” Chloe screamed and lunged for me, but Alex caught her. A slow smile spread across his face. “That’s enough, Lena,” he said, his tone dismissive. “Any more of this and she’ll be impossible to calm down.” He scooped the hysterical Chloe into his arms and carried her to his car. Before getting in, he glanced back at me, his voice laced with the condescending charity one might offer a beggar. “I’ll be home later to see you.” He was so sure I’d be thrilled. After all, over the past year, I had cried, I had screamed, I had even tried to kill myself. And through it all, he had never once come to my bed, claiming he’d promised Chloe he’d be faithful to her. He barely even came home. I’d grown used to sleeping alone. So when a warm hand settled on my waist in the dead of night, a violent shiver ran through me. “I’m home. Happy now?” Alex’s voice was a low murmur in my ear. He pressed me down into the mattress, his lips finding mine in a gentle kiss. But the scent of another woman, mingled with his own, was a sharp invasion. The image of him with Chloe, kissing her, touching her, flashed behind my eyes. A wave of nausea churned in my stomach. I shoved him off me and scrambled to the bathroom, gagging over the sink. Alex followed, frowning. “What’s wrong? Are you sick?” “You’re dirty,” I whispered, the word escaping before I could stop it. His hand, which had been reaching for me, froze in midair. His expression hardened, his eyes turning to chips of ice. His fists clenched so tight the knuckles went white. With a roar, he smashed his fist into the mirror. “You fucking dare call me dirty, Lena?” he snarled, grabbing the back of my neck and forcing my face toward the shattered reflection. “Look at yourself! What part of you is better than Chloe? I take pity on you, I come home to you, and you pull this holier-than-thou act?” He leaned in closer, his voice a venomous hiss. “And don’t you forget. You’re the one who pushed me to her in the first place.” The woman in the mirror was a stranger. Her eyes were dull and bloodshot, her skin sallow. A few strands of gray were visible in her tangled mess of hair. They say a woman ages ten years after having a child. But what about a woman whose child has died? Our daughter, Lily, was three. She was hit by a car, right in front of me. For a long time after, I kept hearing her last word echoing in my ears, a tiny, tear-filled cry of “Mommy…” Night after night, I’d curl up in her little bed, clutching her blankets and stuffed animals. In the depths of my agony, I once bit Alex’s hand until it bled, sinking my teeth into his flesh. He just held me, whispering, “Don’t cry, my love. We’ll have another child.” I slapped him so hard the sound cracked through the room. I screamed at him, telling him he didn’t deserve to be Lily’s father. That if she could hear him, she’d be heartbroken. I refused to let him touch me after that. Word got around our social circle, and business partners started sending women to his hotel rooms, trying to curry favor. Every single one of them was thrown out, disheveled and humiliated. Alex would stand there with a smile on his face, but his eyes were pure ice. “If I get my hands dirty,” he’d say, “my wife won’t be happy.” He took me to Switzerland to get away, to escape the world that was filled with ghosts of our daughter. We went skiing, we visited glowworm caves, we chased the Northern Lights. For a moment, we both thought things were getting better. One night, the entire city was lit up with fireworks. He held me close, his lips about to meet mine. But then I saw a little girl playing nearby. I pushed him away and cried out Lily’s name, the sobs tearing through me. And in that moment, Alex finally broke. “Enough!” he roared. “Lena, are you going to be like this forever? Are you going to stay lost in this madness?” He stared at me, his eyes bloodshot and raw, then turned and walked away. He never came back to me. Soon after, Chloe appeared in his life. My fingers traced the fractured lines in the mirror, touching the reflection of my own haggard face. This had to end. A sharp edge of glass pricked my fingertip, and a bead of blood welled up. Alex sighed. He found the first-aid kit and gently took my hand, carefully applying a bandage to the small cut. “The women on the outside will always be on the outside,” he said softly. “Just be good. No one is going to take your place as Mrs. Walker.” He let go of my hand. “Go make me some soup.” Alex was incredibly picky. His favorite mushroom consommé was an all-day affair. Cleaning and soaking the ingredients, steaming them with sherry to remove any earthiness, then simmering the broth over a low flame for hours. I’d be trapped in the kitchen for half the day. After I found out about him and Chloe, I tried everything. We fought. I screamed. And then, desperate not to lose fifteen years of history, I started to plead. I made my world revolve around him. I took care of his every need. No matter how late he was, I’d leave a light on, waiting. The soup I made for him would cool, and I’d reheat it. It would cool again, and I’d reheat it again. Even though he rarely came home, I kept this ritual up for a whole year. On the rare occasions he did show up, he’d glance at the pot on the stove, a frown creasing his brow. “Lena,” he’d ask, his voice laced with disdain, “would you just die without me?” This time, I pulled my hand away from his touch. “I’m tired,” I said. “Go find Chloe. I’m a light sleeper. I can’t rest with someone next to me.” I got back into bed, pulled the covers up, and turned my back to him, ignoring the way his face instantly darkened. I paid no mind to the burning intensity of his stare on my back. A long moment passed. Then, the bedroom door slammed with enough force to shake the walls. I let out a long breath. And for the first time in three years, I slept soundly through the night. Over the next few days, I met with a lawyer to discuss the divorce. Meanwhile, Alex’s social media, dormant for years, exploded with activity. He won a bidding war for Chloe at a charity auction. He chartered a private yacht for a moonlit cruise. He even took her to the lakeside cabin—a place I hadn’t been able to set foot in since Lily died. Alex and I had built that cabin with our own hands. We’d harvested the timber ourselves, sanded each plank until it was smooth, and spent countless nights poring over blueprints. It took us two years. Our little family used to spend summer nights there, staring up at the stars through the skylight. Lily’s fluffy head would be nestled in the crook of my arm, her little voice whispering, “Daddy, Mommy, let’s be together forever.” It had only been a year since she died. How could he defile that place with her? The filth of it all made my stomach turn. I drove there immediately. When Alex saw me, a flicker of something—maybe satisfaction—lit up his dark eyes. He leaned back lazily, lighting a cigarette. “Chloe’s birthday is coming up,” he said, a trail of smoke curling from his lips. “Since you don’t seem to care about anything anymore, I thought I’d tear down this old shack and build her a proper vacation home.” He gestured for the construction crew to approach, but he didn’t give the order to start. He just watched me, his gaze dark and intense. Waiting. I nodded slowly. “A birthday deserves a gift.” I paused, then added, “But this is all just material junk. You should give her something far more valuable.” “And what’s that?” he asked, his voice tight. “Give her your name,” I said flatly. “Make her Mrs. Walker.” Alex went rigid. The smirk vanished from his lips, replaced by a hard, straight line. A vein throbbed in his temple. He looked like he was about to explode. I walked past him into the cabin and picked up the one thing I wanted: a little porcelain cat Lily and I had fired together. Nothing else mattered. When I got home, the lawyer was waiting with the divorce papers. The division of assets was clear and simple. I started packing, carefully placing Lily’s photo albums, toys, and clothes into boxes. That evening, my phone rang. It was one of Alex’s friends. “Lena, you have to get to the hospital, now!” he said, his voice frantic. “Alex got drunk and into a fight. Someone cut his arm with a knife, it’s a really deep gash.” “Okay,” I said. I grabbed the divorce papers. This was the perfect opportunity to settle things. Suddenly, a burst of laughter erupted from the other end of the line. “I won! Pay up, pay up! I told you guys she’d come running.” “Remember in college? They were long distance, and she’d take a ten-hour bus ride every Friday just to do his laundry and cook for him.” “Yeah, and when Alex got mugged on that business trip to Paris, Lena took a knife for him.” “Forget one Chloe. Alex could have a dozen mistresses, and Lena would never leave him.” I heard Alex chuckle softly before taking the phone. “Bring me some of that mushroom consommé you make,” he said. Then he added, almost as an afterthought, “And I didn’t let Chloe touch Lily’s cabin.” He hung up before I could reply. A moment later, a new post popped up on my social feed. It was a photo of Chloe sitting on Alex’s lap, his own tie wrapped loosely around his neck, held in her hand. Her smile was pure venom.