After Ten Years He Stole My Heirloom For His Mistress
While settling the bill, I noticed an extra charge on my account history: a perm and color treatment. Judging by the price, it was for someone with hair down to their waist.
I’ve had a pixie cut for the better part of a decade.
I called my husband, Ethan.
“Did you use my card at the salon recently?”
There was a distinct pause on the other end of the line before he chuckled, a sound that was just a little too smooth. “Oh, right. I let my partner, Leo, borrow it a few days ago for his girlfriend.”
Leo, his business partner, was dating some art student with a cascade of natural curls. She was famously obsessive about them, swearing she’d never let a single chemical touch her hair.
More importantly, the salon chain was owned by Leo’s older sister. Why on earth would she need to use my account?
I didn’t press him. I just ended the call. Then I pulled up the location history for the charge and started driving.
In a sun-drenched coffee shop downtown, a young woman with long hair was nestled against his chest. Her freshly permed waves were soft and romantic, framing a face flushed with adoration.
Ethan always used to complain that my short hair wasn’t feminine enough, that it lacked a certain softness.
Looking at this girl, I could see he’d finally found exactly what he was looking for.
1
I waited until she got up to go to the restroom, then followed her in.
As I leaned over the sink next to hers, the sharp, chemical scent of fresh hair dye hit me. It was her, alright.
Her eyes met mine in the mirror. I saw the flicker of panic in them, the way her hands moved just a little faster under the running water.
As she turned to leave, I stopped her, a polite smile fixed on my face.
“Excuse me, do you work here?”
Her body went rigid. Her fingers curled into a tight fist at her side, and her voice trembled almost imperceptibly. “Yes… I just work here part-time between classes.”
A cold laugh echoed in my mind. She could barely handle a simple question from a stranger. I wondered where she found the courage to be a mistress.
My gaze drifted over her, landing on her hair. My tone was casual, almost bored. “Don’t be nervous. I was just admiring your hair. You just had it done, right? I’d love a recommendation.”
The color drained from her face. She ducked her head, her voice a mumble. “My boyfriend likes it curly. He took me. I wasn’t really paying attention to the name of the salon.”
She hesitated, then risked a quick glance at me. “A perm like this wouldn’t really work on your short hair, anyway. It might… age you.”
Impressive. Playing the victim while simultaneously taking a jab at me, highlighting her own youth and beauty. Even now, she couldn’t resist a little provocation.
Unfortunately for her, it had zero effect.
I reached out, letting a single curl wrap around my finger. “How long did it take you to grow it this long?”
She flinched back as if I’d burned her. “A little over three years.”
The number was a punch to the gut. Three years ago. That was a turning point in my career.
My artisanal coffee brand, Solstice Roasters, had just become the number one seller in the region. I was constantly flying back and forth to our growers in South America. I was either on a plane, or heading to one.
But whenever I was in the same city, Ethan would meticulously plan the most elaborate dates. I’d felt a mix of profound love and nagging guilt. I remember asking him if he resented me for pouring so much of myself into the business, for neglecting our life together.
He’d just smiled. “You go out there and conquer the world,” he’d said. “I’ll be right here, holding down the fort.”
I knew juggling a career and a family wasn’t as easy as he made it sound. That guilt was a stone I carried in my pocket for years.
Only now did I realize what a joke my self-reproach had been. He hadn’t been neglecting himself at all.
I shut down the thought, pinching the bridge of my nose to mask the emotion in my eyes. That’s when my gaze fell on the necklace she was wearing.
A bitter laugh escaped my lips. “That’s a beautiful necklace,” I said, my voice laced with mock admiration. “It looks like an Antoine Dubois piece. That must have cost a fortune.”
The necklace. It was so damn familiar.
It was the gift my mother had given me for my twenty-first birthday—a custom piece by the independent jewelry designer Antoine Dubois. It was also to celebrate my winning the National Barista Championship that year. I’d lost it during a move, and I had been heartbroken for months.
Ethan had comforted me, saying my style had changed anyway. It was just a thing.
How funny. Now I saw it for what it was: a carefully orchestrated theft, followed by the most hypocritical performance of sympathy.
Hearing my words, the girl—Chloe, I remembered her name was Chloe—instinctively touched the pendant at her throat. Her eyes darted around nervously, her lips trembling, but she couldn’t form a single word.
Just then, someone from the cafe called her name.
Relief washed over her face. She mumbled a goodbye and practically fled.
Watching her hurried escape, a smirk played on my lips.
I dried my hands with deliberate slowness, turned, and walked out of the restroom. Pulling out my phone, I dialed my brother’s number.
He’s the CEO of Summit Enterprises, and, as it happens, Ethan’s most important business partner.
My voice was perfectly calm, betraying nothing. “Liam? Cancel the partnership with Ethan. I’m filing for divorce.”
I paused. “That’s right. He’s been keeping a college student.”
2
The legal team at Summit moved fast. By that evening, a secure hard drive was delivered to my apartment.
I plugged it into my laptop, and the truth that Ethan had so carefully concealed began to unfold, frame by painful frame.
October 10th. Our anniversary last year. I was in Paris on business. We had a plan to meet for a romantic dinner cruise on the Seine, but he canceled at the last minute, claiming a work emergency. I spent the night walking along the river alone, catching a chill that turned into a fever for three days. It turned out he was with Chloe, attending a "Lover's Retreat" workshop hosted by some luxury brand.
November 4th. A small fire broke out at one of my new cafe locations. I was treated for minor injuries, but the shock caused a miscarriage. I was devastated. In the hospital, I cried until I had no tears left, calling his phone over and over, but he never picked up. He was with Chloe at a spa.
November 6th. I was at home, recovering, sunk in a deep depression after losing the baby. He brought me a rare, collector’s edition vinyl of the Casablanca soundtrack, telling me he’d called in a dozen favors to find it. We had a candlelit dinner, listening to "As Time Goes By." Now I know it was just a freebie he and Chloe won in a raffle at some event. That entire "thoughtfully prepared" evening, from the menu to the music, was an exact replica of a date they’d had the day before. The very next morning, he claimed he had an urgent business trip and took Chloe on a weekend cruise. The photos showed them laughing and toasting with a crowd of people, many of whom I recognized as our "mutual friends." Some had even sat at the head table at our wedding. What a perfect, silent conspiracy.
I scrolled through the files, a cold dread settling in the pit of my stomach.
Just as I was about to close the laptop, a document titled "Pharma-Analysis Report" caught my eye.
An icy chill seized my breath. My hand trembled as I clicked it open.
It was a chemical breakdown of a potent, prescription-only birth control pill. The accompanying photo was of my daily vitamin bottle.
At the bottom of the report, a clinical note was highlighted: This medication is known to have a significant impact on early-term pregnancies, often inducing spontaneous miscarriage.
Further down was a screenshot from Chloe's private social media. She had posted a picture of the same bottle. The caption read: He said he only wants a baby with me.
A friend had commented: "Getting ready to start a family? "
Chloe had replied with a blushing emoji.
A roaring sound filled my ears. My miscarriage wasn't an accident.
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