Our Anniversary, Their Birthday
Only this time, I decided to surprise him. I showed up at his downtown office, a bottle of the twenty-year-old scotch he loved tucked in my bag, ready to toast to the man I still believed in.
But his assistant, a polished young woman I didn’t recognize, blocked the doorway to his corner suite.
“I’m sorry, Ma’am,” she said, her voice smooth as glass. “But today is Mr. Hayes’s anniversary with his wife. It’s also his son’s fourth birthday.” She gave me a tight, dismissive smile. “He’s instructed me that he’s not to be disturbed. No clients tonight.”
I stood frozen, the words refusing to arrange themselves into any logical order in my mind. His wife? His son? Before I could ask what she meant, the office door swung open and a little boy burst out. He was wearing an adorable birthday hat and waving a bright green water pistol. He had Ethan’s eyes—the same deep-set, serious gaze, now narrowed at me with suspicion.
“Who are you?” he demanded, his voice high and clear. “Are you the bad lady trying to steal my daddy from my mommy?”
And just like that, a stream of cold water hit me square in the face.
Droplets trickled down from the ends of my hair, but I barely felt them. My entire world had narrowed to the face of that child.
Before we got married, Ethan had been clear. He wanted to be child-free. He didn’t like kids. So we were always careful. Sometimes, when we forgot in the heat of the moment, he would watch me take the pill the next morning, his gaze intense. He’d pull me into his arms after, his voice a low rumble against my ear. “A kid would just be a rival for your affection,” he’d murmur. “And I don’t share you, Chloe. Not with anyone.”
But here was the truth. Not long after we were married, he had started a family with someone else.
1
The door opened again. The little boy scrambled back inside, launching himself into my husband's arms.
He pointed a small, triumphant finger at my dripping face. “Daddy, was I brave?”
Ethan’s gaze met mine, and for a second, he looked like a deer caught in the headlights. Standing beside him, a woman with sleek, dark hair looped her arm through his, standing on her toes to press a kiss to his cheek, right in front of me.
“Happy anniversary, honey,” she purred.
He finally snapped out of it, setting the boy down and gently disentangling himself from the woman’s arm. A smudge of what looked like buttercream was dotted on the tip of his nose. He wouldn’t meet my eyes.
I knew the woman beside him.
Isabelle. His first assistant.
She had quit right after the company finally found its footing. I never thought I’d see her again.
My brain started to function again, slow and grinding like rusty gears. My eyes were locked on Ethan, a tremor starting deep in my bones and spreading outwards.
Isabelle stepped forward, a triumphant little smile playing on her lips.
“Chloe, isn't it? Is there something you needed this late?” she asked, her eyes flicking over my damp clothes. “Ethan is with his family tonight. He’s not available.”
If they were his family, then what was I? His legal, lawfully wedded wife?
A bitter, acidic taste rose in my throat. Isabelle stood there in her designer dress, her makeup flawless, a smug little smirk on her face.
“Maybe you should just go home, Chloe,” she suggested sweetly.
The little boy at her feet chimed in, his voice shrill. “Go home! Go home! Stop trying to steal my daddy!” he chanted. “Bad lady! You’re the bad lady who wants my daddy!”
“You’re ugly!”
Compared to the perfectly put-together Isabelle, he was right. I was a wreck.
And through it all, Ethan said nothing.
My heart felt like it was being physically torn in two. I stared at him, my look a silent plea for an explanation, for anything.
He finally looked away. “Whatever it is, we can talk about it tomorrow,” he said, his voice cold.
The new assistant saw her opening. She grabbed my arm, her grip surprisingly strong, and hustled me toward the elevators. Her eyes were full of contempt.
“So you’re the mistress, huh?” she sneered, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “You know, you’re supposed to stay hidden. Showing up at the main event? God, have some self-respect.”
She shoved me out into the hallway. The elevator doors slid shut, leaving me with my reflection.
The gift for my husband was still in my hand.
The scene in the office, the assistant’s sneering words—mistress, mistress, mistress—played on a loop in my head.
I stumbled out onto the street, the city lights blurring through the tears I refused to let fall. I pulled out my phone. One call to Ethan. Voicemail. A second. A third. Ten in a row, each one a bleating cry into the void before being cut off. Declined.
I let out a hollow laugh that sounded like a sob. Looking up at the single bright rectangle of his office window against the dark skyscraper, I walked to the nearest trash can and dropped the bottle of twenty-year-old scotch inside. It landed with a dull, final thud.
2
I spent the night on the couch, a ghost in my own home, until the sun came up.
My phone finally rang. It was Ethan.
His voice was strained, urgent. “Chloe, listen. About last night, I can explain. It was a mistake.”
“It wasn’t what it looked like.”
My own voice came out as a dry rasp. “A mistake? When did we get divorced, Ethan? When did you become Isabelle’s husband? And when did you have a son who’s old enough to be in preschool?”
A beat of silence on his end.
“I’ll explain everything later,” he finally said. “Just… don’t go after Isabelle. It has nothing to do with her.”
I laughed. It was a brittle, broken sound. Tears started to stream down my face, hot and silent. Even now, his first instinct was to protect her. He still wouldn’t give me a straight answer.
In everyone else’s eyes, she was the one who had stood by him, who had helped him build his empire from the ground up. I was just… the other woman. Our anniversary, a day meant for us, had become their anniversary.
The irony was crushing. In the story of my own marriage, I had somehow become the villain. The mistress.
Ethan never came home.
Instead, Isabelle showed up at my door.
She sauntered in, a victorious smile on her face, and sat across from me as if she owned the place.
My hands clenched into fists in my lap.
“What do you want?”
Isabelle simply arched an eyebrow. She held up her left hand, flashing the diamond on her ring finger.
“This? This is the ring Ethan proposed to me with.”
She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Chloe, if I were you, I’d just leave gracefully. There’s no need to make this any uglier than it has to be.”
I stared at her, my blood turning to ice.
She smiled again. “And we have an adorable son together. You? What do you have? Every time he told you he was working late on a holiday, where was he really? He was with me. Celebrating our anniversary. Celebrating our son’s birthday. Every single year.”
No matter how hard I tried to stay composed, her words were like daggers. My face contorted in a mask of pain I couldn’t hide. My heart, already fractured, splintered into a thousand more pieces.
All those anniversaries, those holidays I’d spent alone. He’d always claim it was a last-minute business trip, an unavoidable crisis at work. I was disappointed, of course, but I told him I understood. I told him work was important. I’d prepare elaborate dinners that would end up in the trash can, untouched. The next day, a lavish gift would arrive—his apology, his penance.
Only now did I understand. It wasn't an apology. It was hush money for his conscience.
I took a deep, shuddering breath, forcing myself to regain some semblance of control. I looked her dead in the eye.
And then, I smiled.
“Ethan and I are married, Isabelle. We have a marriage license. We have legal protections. As long as I am his wife, you and that little boy of yours are nothing but a mistress and an illegitimate child.”
“Doesn’t sound quite so glamorous when you put it that way, does it?”
I watched with grim satisfaction as the color drained from her smug face.
But she recovered quickly. She leaned back, a flicker of something new in her eyes. She laughed.
“He doesn’t love you,” she said simply. “You know, when we’re together, he’s always telling me how much he regrets marrying you.”
“He says you don’t know how to be affectionate, how to be soft. That in bed, you’re like a cold, dead fish. A total turn-off.”
“He told me that sleeping with you feels like a chore. That it’s utterly boring.”
Her words sent a dizzying shockwave through me. I had always thought… I had thought we were good. That our intimacy was real. After we made love, he would always hold me close, kissing me softly for minutes on end.
I guess he was just a better actor than I ever knew.
Seeing my stunned silence, Isabelle’s smile widened.
“So since we’re all clear on the situation, why not just sign the divorce papers? It would be better for everyone, don’t you think?”
She was right. A divorce would be better for everyone.
But I just looked at her, my own smile fixed in place.
“A divorce? You can tell Ethan to ask me for one himself.”
“Even if I wanted one,” I added, leaning in, “do you really think he has the guts to agree to it?”
The triumphant look on her face vanished completely.
3
That evening, Ethan came home. He stormed through the door, his face a mask of fury.
He saw the dinner I had just finished making, set on the table, and with a sweep of his arm, he sent it all crashing to the floor. Porcelain shattered, scattering across the hardwood.
His eyes were bloodshot as he glared at me. “Chloe, I told you I would explain! Why did you have to go and bother Isabelle?”
I stared at the mess on the floor, my voice dangerously quiet. “So you’re here to settle the score on her behalf?”
Ethan stared at me for a long, tense moment.
Finally, he spoke. “She’s innocent in all of this.”
“It’s not her fault.”
“Chloe, you have no reason to go after her. She’s been through enough.”
“Your life is so much better than hers.”
I just looked at him, the man I thought I knew. I fell for him our sophomore year of college. I was the one who pursued him, shamelessly and relentlessly, making a fool of myself until he finally gave in. We got married the year after we graduated.
Back then, he was just starting his company. We lived in a tiny, rented apartment. I saved every penny. If he wasn’t coming home for dinner, I’d eat leftovers, which once landed me in the hospital with food poisoning. When it rained, I’d take three different buses to get home instead of splurging on a cab, showing up at our door soaked to the bone, which inevitably led to me getting sick.
The very first time he made a real profit, he bought me a ring. He said he wanted me to have a proper wedding ring, to feel like we were truly married. I cried, not from joy, but from guilt. I yelled at him for wasting money we didn’t have.
He had forgotten. He had forgotten how I suffered alongside him, how I supported him when he had nothing.
I lifted my hand and slapped him across the face. The sound echoed in the silent room.
“I have better things to do than go out of my way to make myself sick. Now, don’t you think you owe me an explanation, Ethan? When did you start sleeping with Isabelle? And when, exactly, did you have a son with her?”
“It was an accident,” he said, his voice laced with exasperation.
I laughed, a cold, sharp sound. An accident that he slept with her. An accident that she got pregnant and had his child. Looking at his face, all I felt was a profound sense of revulsion.
“We are married. You cheated. That makes Isabelle a mistress and your son a bastard. They will always be looked down on.”
His face darkened.
“Chloe, you don’t have to use such ugly words. I can explain everything.”
“When the time is right, we can have the boy’s records transferred over to us. At least that way, you won’t have to suffer the ordeal of childbirth.”
I was so stunned by his audacity that for a moment, I couldn’t even speak. He actually wanted me to legally adopt his illegitimate son. To raise him as my own.
“So you see,” he continued, as if he were granting me some great favor, “you have no reason to be upset with Isabelle.”
I smiled. “No, thank you. The thought of raising that child disgusts me.”
Ethan’s face hardened into a cold mask.
I didn’t say another word. I just turned and walked back to our bedroom, closing the door behind me.
A few minutes later, after a brief call with my lawyer, my mother-in-law’s number flashed on the screen.
Her voice was as warm and friendly as ever. “Chloe, sweetie, have you eaten? When do you have time to come visit? I bought you something nice.”
Her cheerful tone made my heart ache. After Ethan and I got married, his mother had always been kind to me. She often sent me money, telling me to buy myself nice things, treating me like the daughter she never had.
How could I tell her that her son was a cheat, that he had a whole other family? I couldn’t bring myself to do it.
I forced a smile into my voice. “Hi, Mom. Yes, I just finished dinner.”
“I’ve been really busy lately, so I’m not sure when I can make it out. You and Dad please take care of yourselves.”
She laughed on the other end. “How are things with you and Ethan? That brat hasn’t been giving you a hard time, has he?”
Before I could answer, she continued, “I know he’s busy and can’t always be there for you, but you have to be understanding. There’s nothing a husband and wife can’t work through. If he does something wrong, you have to learn to be forgiving.”
“He called me last night, said you two had a little disagreement. It’s nothing serious, I’m sure. But I was worried you might be upset, so I wanted to check in.”
Hearing Ethan’s name made my forced cheerfulness falter.
We chatted for a few more minutes before she hung up. But as I put the phone down, a strange feeling crept over me. Something about that conversation felt… off.
4
The next day, when I came home from work, I found Isabelle and her son sitting on my couch.
My voice was ice. “Who let you in here? Get out.”
Before Isabelle could respond, Ethan emerged from the kitchen holding a bowl of soup. He glanced at me, his expression flat. “Isabelle wasn’t feeling well. I told her she could rest here for a bit.”
I shot a cold look at Isabelle’s perfectly healthy, rosy-cheeked face. It was obvious she wasn't sick. She was here to assert her dominance. Ever since our fight, Ethan had been spending every night at her place. She thought she had won. She had come with her son to rub it in my face.
I wasn’t about to play her game. “If she’s not feeling well, she should go die. Why is she still breathing?”
Ethan’s face darkened. “Chloe! Don’t go too far.”
Isabelle’s eyes immediately welled up with tears. She tugged gently on Ethan’s sleeve. “It’s okay, Ethan. It’s normal for Chloe to be upset with me.”
“She must have misunderstood what happened at the office. And now you’re being so nice to me, she must be feeling…” Her voice trailed off, leaving the implication hanging in the air.
Her son, seeing his mother’s tears, grabbed a toy car from the floor and hurled it at me.
“Bad woman! You’re a bad woman trying to steal my daddy!”
“Get out, get out!”
“Don’t bully my mommy, and don’t try to take my daddy!”
With every shout, he threw another toy.
Isabelle’s lips curved into a subtle, satisfied smile as she leaned into Ethan’s embrace.
Ethan put down the soup and frowned at me.
“Chloe, what you said was completely out of line. Isabelle is just feeling a little under the weather. I’ll take her home in a bit.”
He paused, then said in a low, firm voice, “Apologize to her.”
I laughed as if he’d just told the funniest joke in the world. “Show me the law that says a wife has to apologize to a mistress, and maybe I’ll consider it.”
Ignoring the furious look on Ethan’s face, I bent down, picked up one of the toys from the floor, and threw it right back at the little boy, with just as much force.
He immediately burst into tears and ran into Isabelle’s arms.
“Mommy, it hurts,” he wailed.
Isabelle hugged him tightly, her eyes, red and tearful, fixed on Ethan. “Ethan… maybe we should just go. I don’t mind what Chloe says about me, but Liam is only four. He only acted out because he thought I was being bullied…”
“I just can’t believe she would throw something at him.”
Ethan’s gaze was hard as steel. “Chloe. Apologize.”
How utterly ridiculous. I was his wife, yet he was demanding I apologize to his mistress and their son.
“Not happening. Not in this lifetime.”
Isabelle picked up her son and hurried towards the door. As she passed me, she stumbled and fell dramatically to the floor. Fat tears splashed onto the polished wood.
Ethan rushed over and helped her up.
Isabelle kept her head down, refusing to look at me. “Ethan, I want to go home,” she whispered.
The boy in her arms echoed, sobbing, “Daddy, I want to go home too.”
Without another word, Ethan led them out the door.
The house was suddenly silent again, so quiet it felt like the whole ugly scene had just been a bad dream.
A moment later, my phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.
[I won.]
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