My Husband Cheated With My Protégé

Nearly four years after I divorced Russell Montgomery, I asked him to meet me.

I brought our four-year-old daughter. I was dying, and I needed to know whether the man who had destroyed my life could give her a home.

Our eyes met, and I broke the silence. “How’ve things been with Gianna Hamilton all these years?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just watched me for a beat. Then, “Magdalena, you’ve really changed.”

I didn’t argue. I just smiled faintly and gently nudged my daughter toward him. “I need you to take care of Lilyana. I can’t do it anymore.”

Russell’s brows knitted together. He let out a cold laugh. “You fought like hell to keep Lilyana back then, Magdalena. What’s this supposed to mean now?”

I took a step back, looked at Lilyana’s innocent eyes, and tried to steady my voice. “It doesn’t mean anything. Just that I can’t keep her anymore.”

Inside my coat pocket, my fingers tightened around the oncology report, and forced my gaze away from Lilyana’s face. My future was already gone.

…

It wasn’t until the manager brought the cake to the table that I realized I’d been holding my breath for way too long. “Your daughter’s gotten so big! It’s been a while since you all came in together,” Gwen Ortiz smiled, looking from me to Russell. “Mr. Montgomery, you’re always so thoughtful—coming by every day to pick up an order.”

I blinked, taken aback, then shook my head at Gwen. “We’re... just friends.”

The words hung in the air. Russell’s eyebrows furrowed even more, but he didn’t say anything. He just pushed the mango cake toward me.

“Mango’s still your favorite, isn’t it?”

I stared at the delicate mango cake on the table. It used to be my favorite. But I couldn’t have it anymore. These days, even a few bites could leave me nauseated and doubled over in pain. Most mornings, I could barely manage toast.

“Take it home for your wife,” I said, pushing the cake back toward him, my voice steady.

“Magdalena.” Russell’s expression darkened, his voice edged with irritation.

I avoided his eyes, gave Gwen an apologetic smile, and picked up my bag to leave.

As I passed him, Lilyana suddenly reached out, her tiny hand stretching toward me as she softly called, “Mommy—”

I stopped dead in my tracks. My eyes burned instantly.

But I couldn’t stop.

I quickened my pace, practically fleeing from the café.

Behind me, Russell’s voice called my name. But the wind was too loud and my tears too hot—I couldn’t hear a thing.

I walked until I was far enough away, then stopped, clutching the diagnosis letter in my pocket until it crumpled.

I took a deep breath, willed my tears to stop, and tossed the diagnosis into a nearby trash bin.

The wind lifted my sleeve, revealing an old scar. I hesitated, suddenly remembering this was nearly four years since my divorce from Russell, and the first month since my terminal stomach cancer diagnosis.

It wasn’t the breakdown I’d imagined. Not the devastation I felt when I first got the report. All I could think about was Lilyana.

I buttoned up my coat and headed to my cramped apartment.

When I reached my tiny room, I had just pulled out my keys when the door next to mine opened. My roommate, Esperanza Ramirez, poked her head out. “Hey, Maggie, you’re back? Where’s Lilyana? A package got mixed up with mine when I grabbed the mail this afternoon. I left it by your door.”

“Thanks.”

I looked down. Sure enough, a small cardboard box was leaning against my door.

My right hand started shaking again. I pressed it against my side and squatted to open the box.

On top lay a letter, the envelope bearing Russell Montgomery’s elegant handwriting.

“To Magdalena Stephens”

Esperanza leaned in curiously. “Wow. Who’s it from? That handwriting is gorgeous.”

She tilted her head to read the signature, and when she recognized it, she gasped.

“Russell Montgomery? Wait—the Russell Montgomery from the Montgomery Group? The one in financial magazines? The ridiculously handsome genius artist?!”

She drew a sharp breath, her eyes sparkling with admiration. “Maggie, you know him? How have you never mentioned this?”

I brushed the letter aside like it was nothing, looked at the old items inside the box, and shook my head. My tone stayed calm.

“I’m his ex-wife.”

The ex-wife everyone whispered about—anxious, insecure, blacklisted from the art world for plagiarism. The one whose life he’d personally ruined. The stain on his perfect life.