Operating On My Wifes Lover

My first day back in the States, and my first procedure was a standard circumcision on a kid who couldn't have been more than twenty-two.

He spent the entire time signing the consent forms while complaining loudly into his phone at his girlfriend.

Its a minor surgery, babe. Was it really worth walking away from a ten-million-dollar closing just to fly back here? he scoffed, rolling his eyes. "The house is already overflowing with the Birkins and the Rolexes you sent. Seriously, stop buying me things!"

He slid the clipboard back to me. My eyes instinctively drifted to the emergency contact line.

Joyce Blackwood.

It was the same name as my girlfriend. I felt a small, ironic smile tug at the corner of my mouth. "Small world," I muttered. "Thats my partners name, too."

The kid, whose name was Cooper Wells, looked at me with bright, almost manic eyes. He reached out and shook my hand. "No way. Hey, Doc, let me ask youare all women named Joyce this obsessed? Like, borderline 'stage-five clinger' status?"

He chuckled, leaning back. "Im pretty sure Im only in this mess because of her. Shes all over me, man. Every single night. Its exhausting. I tried to sneak away to get this done without the drama, but she found out and insisted on flying back from London just to be here when I wake up."

I opened my mouth to defend my Joyce. I wanted to tell him that my Joyce wasn't like that. She was poised, professional, and fiercely independenta high-powered executive who valued her space as much as I valued mine. She was the "ice queen" of the corporate world, a woman of refined restraint.

Then, Cooper turned his phone toward me, grinning as he showed off a photo of the woman who was "ruining his life" with her devotion.

My heart didn't just skip a beat; it felt like it hit a wall.

Smiling radiantly on the screen, her arms wrapped tightly around this boys neck, was the woman I had been building a life with for the last five years.

Joyce Blackwood.

My Joyce wasnt clingy. She wasn't an "obsessive" lover. In fact, in the bedroom, she was always measured, almost detachedas if she were checking a task off a very organized to-do list.

But here was Cooper, prattling on, his "complaints" dripping with the smug satisfaction of a man who knew he was adored.

"Anyway, Doc, the paperwork is done. We good to go?"

I forced my features into a professional mask, though the skin of my face felt tight, like it might crack. "Ill need your pre-op history and allergy files from your primary care physician before we can finalize the surgical suite."

He tapped his forehead, looking annoyed. "Dammit. I think I left those in the safe at home after our pre-marital physicals. I guess well have to push the date."

I looked up, my vision blurring for a second. I had to swallow hard to keep my voice steady. "Youre married? You look... young."

He gave me a look of pure, boyish innocence. "Yeah. Last November twentieth. My twenty-second birthday."

He laughed, a sound that made my stomach churn. "She was so terrified of losing me. I was still in my senior year of college, and she practically dragged me to City Hall. She was convinced Id run off if she didn't put a ring on it. She even bought a townhouse right next to campus while I was finishing my degree just so she could be close. Total stalker vibes, right?"

He playfully adjusted his expensive watch, acting like her devotion was a burden.

Underneath the desk, my hands were shaking so violently I had to grip my knees.

November 20th.

That was the day my father died.

I remembered it with agonizing clarity. I had called her dozens of times that day, desperate for her voice, needing her to hold me while my world collapsed.

All I got was a text six hours later: Mitch, Im so sorry. Im stuck in back-to-back meetings and cant get away. Ill make it up to you and your mom as soon as this deal closes. Hang in there.

She wasn't stuck in a meeting.

She was busy saying "I do" to a boy ten years younger than me.

"Doc? You okay?"

Coopers voice snapped me back. He stood up, looking slightly concerned. "Look, Ill just head home and grab the files. My bad."

I stood up abruptly, the chair screeching against the floor. "Ill go with you."

He blinked, surprised. "Wait, really? Isn't that... a lot?"

"Not at all," I said, my voice sounding hollow even to my own ears. "We have an opening in the schedule this afternoon. Better to get it over with. For your health."

We walked down to the parking garage and got into his cara customized Mercedes G-Wagon with a plush interior that screamed "new money." Or rather, "her money."

On the drive, he couldn't stop talking. He told me about the private islands theyd visited, the Michelin-starred restaurants where they had their first dates, the "naughty" details of their first time together. He spoke with a vibrant, arrogant energy that made me want to scream.

I stared out the window, my mind a fractured mosaic of every promise Joyce had ever made me.

We pulled up to a gated community on the Gold Coast. The Sterling Heights.

It was the most expensive development in the city. Joyce and I had walked past these lots years ago, dreaming. Wed promised each other that one day, when we finally made it, this is where wed build our home.

I didn't realize shed already moved in with someone else.

When he opened the front door of the villa, I froze. The interior designthe white oak floors, the minimalist slate fireplace, the floor-to-ceiling librarywas exactly what Joyce and I had sketched out on napkins in a dive bar three years ago.

"Did you design this?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper. I wanted to believe it was a coincidence. A shared aesthetic.

He handed me a glass of water, grinning. "Nah. This was all Joyce. She handled the whole build. Its pretty sick, right? Look at thisshe even put a little recessed charging nook next to the toilet because she knows I like to scroll through my phone in there."

I stood in the hallway, my fingernails digging into my palms so hard I thought I might draw blood.

That nook was my idea.

I had told her about it one winter night while we were eating takeout in our cramped apartment. I had shown her the blueprints Id saved on my phone, explaining every little detail I wanted for our "forever home."

She hadn't been listening to build a life with me. Shed been taking notes for him.

Cooper led me upstairs to find the paperwork. As we reached the landing, a white toy poodle came skittering down the hall, yapping joyfully.

"Hey, buddy!" Cooper knelt down, scooping the dog up. "Missed your daddy, huh?"

The dog suddenly squirmed out of his arms and ran straight to me. It began franticly wagging its tail, jumping against my shins, whimpering with a desperate, familiar recognition.

I stood there, paralyzed. I knew the texture of that fur. I knew that specific, high-pitched bark.

Cooper laughed. "Man, he usually hates strangers. Its like he knows you or something."

My throat felt like it was full of glass. "Whats his name?"

"Oliver. Hes five." Cooper patted the dogs head. "Actually, Ive only had him for two years. Joyce got him from some 'relative' who couldn't keep him anymore. She said she didn't want me to be lonely when she was traveling for work."

I let out a ragged breath that felt like a sob.

Of course the dog knew me. This was my dog. My grandmother had given him to me before she passed. Id raised him for three years until the day he "disappeared" from our backyard. Id spent months looking for him, devastated.

Joyce had held me while I cried. Don't worry, Mitch. Im here. Ill never leave you.

She hadn't lost him. She had stolen him to give to her new plaything.

Cooper pushed open the bedroom door and started rummaging through a desk. My gaze fell on a handmade calendar hanging on the wall. Joyces handwriting was unmistakable. Every square was filled with a list of chores: Laundry. Vacuuming. Prep Coopers lunch. Clean gym sneakers.

"What is that?" I asked, my voice trembling.

Cooper looked up and smiled. "Oh, thats her daily to-do list. Im a bit of a neat freak and I hate having a maid around, so she takes care of the house. Shes actually really dedicated to it."

I felt a cold shiver run down my spine. When we lived together, we had a cleaning service because she "didn't have time" for housework. I was the one who did the grocery shopping, the one who washed her silk blouses by hand because she was too busy.

For him, she was a tradwife. For me, she was a ghost.

"Found it!" Cooper pulled out a folder and handed it to me.

I flipped through the pages mechanically. Every signature on the "spouse" line was Joyce Blackwood.

"Everything look okay, Doc?"

I forced myself to breathe. "Fine. Ill go back to the clinic and get this processed. Ill call you with the time."

As I turned to leave, Cooper grabbed my arm. "Hey, don't rush off. Look at the skyits about to pour, and its almost dinner time. Were practically friends now, right? Stay for a drink. Let my wife cook for you. Shes actually an amazing chef."

She can cook?

In five years, Id never seen her boil an egg.

Before I could refuse, hed pulled me onto the leather sofa and dialed her number. "Hey, babe. Where are you? Get your ass home and start dinner."

The voice on the other end was familiar, but the tone was all wrong. It wasn't the cool, detached voice I knew. It was warm, indulgent, and breathless.

"You brat. Im at the hospital with nine hundred and ninety-nine roses waiting to pick you up, and you just vanished?"

Nine hundred and ninety-nine.

In five years, the most shed ever given me was a dozen carnations on my birthday, ordered by her assistant.

"Stop wasting money!" Cooper teased. "Just get home. We have a guest, and I want you to show off, Chef Joyce."

She laugheda bright, genuine sound I hadn't heard in years. "Yes, sir! Im on my way. Be there in ten."

I sat on the sofa, staring at my hands.

The roses. The hospital pickup. The "Chef" title. The laughter. These were all versions of her I had never been allowed to see. I couldn't even imagine the Joyce I knewthe one who wore power suits and lived for board meetingswearing an apron.

I started to stand up, wanting to bolt, when a flash of lightning flickered outside. A second later, a massive crack of thunder shook the house.

I flinched, instinctively reaching up to cover my ears.

But the sound was muffled, distant.

I looked around, confused. Cooper walked over, smiling. "Hey, you hate storms too? Don't sweat it."

He pointed to the walls. "You could set off a bomb outside and you wouldn't hear a thing in here. Joyce knew I had a phobia of thunder, so when she built the place, she had the whole house outfitted with industrial-grade acoustic insulation and triple-paned soundproof glass. Its a tomb in here."

I sat back down, feeling like a fool.

When I was a kid, I was in a car accident during a summer storm. Ever since, heavy rain and thunder triggered a visceral panic in me. Id told Joyce about it. Id sent her texts during storms, telling her how much I hated being alone when it rained.

She used to laugh it off. Oh, Mitch, don't be a baby. You just want an excuse for me to come over, don't you? Im busy at work. Go to sleep. Goodnight.

Id spent so many nights wrapped in a duvet, sweating and shaking, biting my knuckles so I wouldn't cry out.

She hadn't thought I was being dramatic. She just didn't care enough to quiet the world for me.

Numbly, I reached for a glass of water on the coffee table. My hand slipped, splashing water over a stack of papers.

"Dammit, Im sorry," I muttered, grabbing a napkin.

"No big deal," Cooper said, waving it off. "Thats old stuff anyway."

But my hand stopped mid-air. The header of the document caught my eye: OFFICIAL ACCIDENT REPORT.

"You were in a car accident?" I asked. The format was hauntingly familiar.

Cooper leaned back, nonchalant. "Not me. A cousin of mine. Drunk driving, hit some guy. It was pretty bad, actually. I was going to let the law handle itI mean, he was wastedbut his family begged me to help. I mentioned it to Joyce, and man, that woman is a magician. I don't know who she paid or what strings she pulled, but the whole thing just... went away."

He shook his head, almost impressed. "Her 'problem-solving' skills are honestly kind of terrifying."

My heart felt like it was being squeezed by a cold hand. "Can I... see that?"

Cooper shrugged. "Sure. Knock yourself out."

I turned the page to the "Victim" section.

My fathers name was written there in cold, black ink.

The date. The location. Everything matched. But the report in my hand said "Minor injuries, victim refused treatment."

My father didn't refuse treatment. He was dragged thirty feet. The driver had panicked and backed over him, crushing his neck. He died in the street, alone.

I had spent a year screaming for justice. Id filed appeals, hired private investigators, and fought every step of the way. But every door had been slammed in my face. My mother had been threatened. Someone had spray-painted "DROP IT" in red on our front door.

Joyce had held me while I was hysterical, whispering, Mitch, let it go. You can't fight people this powerful. The system is rigged. Please, for your mothers safety, just stop.

I had knelt at my fathers grave and apologized for being too weak to find his killer.

I never imagined the person who buried the truth was the woman sleeping beside me.

My face went pale, the blood draining away until I felt faint. Without Cooper noticing, I slid my phone out and recorded his voice as he continued to brag about Joyces "connections." Then, I took a clear photo of the forged report.

I sent the files immediately to my familys old lawyer.

I took a deep breath, forcing the rage back down into my marrow. I adjusted my expression and sat back just as the sound of the garage door opening echoed through the house.

Joyce walked in, hidden behind a mountain of nine hundred and ninety-nine long-stemmed red roses. She didn't see me at first. She walked straight to Cooper, tilted her head back, and kissed him with a hunger I had never experienced from her.

Cooper pushed her back playfully. "Okay, okay, settle down, you animal. We have company. Go put those down and get to work. Im starving."

Joyce nodded obediently, her eyes shimmering with a soft, adoring light. He took her hand and led her toward the living room.

"Joyce, babe, let me introduce you. This is"

The words died in his throat.

The roses slipped from Joyces arms, scattering across the hardwood floor like a bloody wound.

In the silence that followed, I stood up. My voice was low, steady, and dead.

"Hello, Joyce. I didn't realize youd gotten married. Why wasn't I invited to the wedding?"