Her Initials on His Mistress's Wrist
On our tenth wedding anniversary, I saw an automatically synced email receipt on Garrett's iPad.
It didn't belong to me.
It was from a high-end bespoke gallery in Chicago, commissioned for a two-person portrait.
I called my husband, Garrett Sterling.
"Have you commissioned any art recently?"
There was a brief silence on the other end, then he chuckled, his voice effortlessly smooth, betraying nothing. "Oh, that. I was commissioning a gift for my business partner, Brooke. A housewarming present, he explained, for her new estate in the Hamptons."
Brooke was a fiercely private woman. She would never commission a portrait for public display.
More importantly, the sketch attached to the receipt showed a woman with waist-length hair. My hair has always been a chic, short bob.
I ended the call without another word.
Then, I headed straight for the address in the email.
Through the floor-to-ceiling window, I saw a young woman with waist-length hair holding Garrett's arm, her body pressed intimately against his. He’d complained countless times that my short hair wasn't feminine enough—that I was all business, no soul.
Apparently, the long-haired woman was his type.