My Husband Made Me Apologize To His Mistress

At the Lee family dinner, I showed up in a dress identical to that of Archie's beloved, Giselle Thompson. His expression turned icy, and he shot me a cold glance before ordering the dress to be destroyed immediately.

“Madeline, can’t you exercise a little common sense? Giselle might brush this off, but I won't let you embarrass her like this.”

As the flames consumed the fabric, the heat was searing and immediate, sending waves of agony through my legs. I fainted from the pain, only to later awaken, weakly pleading for him to spare me.

Archie didn’t even glance my way. Instead, he joined Giselle, who was calmly slicing into the spiced honey cake.

Days passed before he thought of me again.

“As long as you behave and don’t trouble Giselle, you can still be Mrs. Lee,” he said.

But staring at my burned legs, I made a decision. I wouldn’t cry or plead anymore. I didn’t want to be Mrs. Lee.

Archie tossed a gift box onto the sofa, a half-hearted attempt at an apology. “Maybe I went overboard. These shoes are my apology. They’re the latest fashion.”

I looked at the high heels. The smooth leather and slender heels glistened coldly in the light. My legs still throbbed with pain, making the shoes seem even more insulting. They were a size too big, yet he claimed they were "specially bought for me."

Seeing that I made no move to take them, Archie’s face tightened with impatience. “I’ve already apologized. What more do you want? Even Giselle doesn’t hold a grudge, yet you insist on dragging this out. Stop blowing things out of proportion.”

I felt a tightness in my chest. With a deep breath, I steadied my voice, “I wasn’t trying to imitate her. The dress was—”

“More excuses?” Archie interrupted with a disdainful laugh. “I know exactly what you're doing. Trying to mimic her, yet failing to see who you really are.”

His contempt cut through me like a knife, leaving me frozen. My fingers trembled slightly at my sides. The shoes felt as heavy as stones on my lap, weighing me down with humiliation.

“If you don’t want them, give them to Giselle yourself as an apology,” Archie said coldly, shoving the shoes toward me as if my refusal was another affront.

His voice was sharp and icy. “Giselle is always gracious and won't mind your little stunts.”

Those gleaming high heels felt like invisible daggers, piercing my heart. The burns on my legs stung anew, a reminder of his cruelty. Yet he expected me to offer these shoes as an apology for being “offensive.”

Archie’s cold gaze bore into me. “Stop pretending to be so wronged. Hurry up!”

This was the man I had loved for five years. His indifference, coldness, and contempt crushed my self-esteem bit by bit.

I summoned all my strength to stand, my legs screaming with pain. Tears streamed down my cheeks.

Giselle was Archie's unattainable ideal, his obsession fueled by love and longing. I was just the eager young woman who had pursued him in college.

In my sophomore year, with everyone's envy, I gathered the courage to confess and became his girlfriend. Though he never expressed love for me, I believed that with enough devotion, I could win his heart and become his one and only.

But her return showed me that no matter how hard I tried, she would always hold a place in his heart.

Once, when Archie was drunk, he mistook me for Giselle. He gently caressed my face, whispering her name with a tenderness and passion he had never shown me. I watched in shock, his eyes unfocused, a wistful smile on his lips as if he were gazing at his idealized version of "her."

It dawned on me that he had been with me only because I reminded him of her. He married me due to those similarities. But after she returned, even that semblance of warmth vanished.

The fragments of similarity I shared with her became a stain in his eyes, tarnishing her memory. From then on, any accidental resemblance—a color she loved, a scent she wore, or even a casual hairstyle—elicited his frowning disapproval or sharp remarks.

Loving Archie had been the most humbling experience of my life.

Gently touching my burned legs, I called Treasure White, my mentor abroad.

If I was merely a fleeting shadow beneath his moonlit ideal, perhaps it was time to leave.