My Fiancé Took His Pregnant Mistress to the Maldives

I chose the dress three days ago. Navy blue, fitted at the waist, the kind that made me feel like I was trying without trying too hard. Six years. Six years deserved a nice dress.

The restaurant was one of those Manhattan places where the lighting was low and the waiters moved like they were choreographed. I arrived early. Craig always ran late, but I didn't mind. I sat at our table by the window and watched the street below, feeling the small flutter of excitement I still got when I knew I was about to see him.

He came in twenty minutes later, his coat over one arm, his phone in his other hand. He was still looking at the screen when he sat down.

"Sorry," he said, not looking up. "Work thing."

"It's okay." I reached across the table for his hand.

He pulled back before I could touch him, setting his phone face-down on the table. "Jade. You know I can't."

I did know. Six years, and I knew.

"Contamination aversion," I said quietly, pulling my hand back into my lap. "I forgot."

"It's not personal." His voice was patient, like he was explaining something simple to someone slow. "You know how I am. It's a forensic thing."

I nodded. I always nodded.

Dinner was fine. He talked about the upcoming National Championship, the competition report I'd finished for him last week. He didn't say thank you. He never did. It wasn't like that between us. I was support. I was the foundation. He was the one people saw.

When dessert came, I tried again. "Maybe just a quick kiss? It's our anniversary."

He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "After dinner. Let me just take this call first."

His phone had been buzzing all night. He picked it up, glanced at the screen, and stood. "Two minutes."

He walked toward the back of the restaurant, past the bar, toward the private dining rooms. I watched him go, then looked down at the table. His jacket was still draped over the back of his chair. His phone lit up again, vibrating against the wood.

I shouldn't have looked.

But I did.

The message preview was short. The contact name was clinical—just initials, like a case file. But the words underneath were not clinical at all.

*Miss you. Hurry.*

I stood up. My legs felt strange, like they belonged to someone else. I walked in the direction Craig had gone, past the bar, down a hallway lined with dark wood and soft lighting. There were three private rooms. Two had their doors open. One didn't.

I pushed it open.

Craig was kissing someone.

Not a polite kiss. Not a friendly kiss. His hands were in her hair, her body pressed against his, his mouth on hers like he was drowning and she was air.

The woman was Peyton Allen. Craig's older brother's widow. The one who'd cried at the funeral. The one who'd held my hand at the reception and told me how lucky Craig was to have me.

She was pregnant. Very pregnant. Her hand rested on the curve of her belly, fingers splayed like she was protecting something precious.

They didn't notice me at first. Then Craig's eyes opened. He froze.

Peyton turned her head slowly, her expression shifting from surprise to something else. Something that looked almost like satisfaction. Her hand moved deliberately to her stomach, cradling it.

I didn't say anything. I looked at Craig. Then at Peyton. Then back at Craig.

His mouth opened. "Jade—"

I turned and walked out.

I didn't run. I didn't cry. I walked through the restaurant, past our table with its half-eaten dessert, past the host who smiled and wished me a good evening. I got in my car, drove home, and opened my laptop.

The City Hall website was easy to navigate. I found our marriage license application, still pending. I clicked cancel. The system asked me to confirm. I confirmed.

Then I started packing.

I was in the bedroom when I found them. Two tickets, first class, tucked inside Craig's desk drawer under a stack of printed reports—reports I'd written for him. The destination was the Maldives. The names were Craig West and Peyton Allen. The departure date was next week. The week we were supposed to go to City Hall and sign our marriage certificate.

There was a small heart drawn in pen on the confirmation page. Craig's handwriting.

I was still holding the tickets when I heard the front door open.

"Jade!" Craig's voice, loud and sharp. "What the hell was that?"

I walked into the hallway. He was standing by the door, his coat still on. Peyton was behind him, her arms crossed over her belly, her face carefully blank.

I held up the tickets. "I saw you kissing her. She's pregnant. And you were planning to take her to the Maldives next week."

Craig's face went red. "You went through my things?"

"You went through six years of my life," I said quietly.

He stepped forward, fast, and shoved me. My back hit the wall, hard enough that my teeth clicked together. My lip caught on something sharp. I tasted blood.

"You're paranoid," he said, his voice low and mean. "You're pathetic. You've always been pathetic."

Peyton was still standing by the door. She wasn't smiling, but she wasn't not smiling either.

I looked at Craig. At the man I'd loved for six years. The man I'd written every paper for, every report, every analysis that had made him famous. The man who couldn't even kiss me on our anniversary.

I picked up my bag.

"I'm done being your ghost," I said.

I walked past Peyton without looking at her. I walked out the door, down the stairs, and into the night.

I didn't look back.