His Pregnant Mistress Revealed He Drove My Mother to Suicide

The apartment smells like yeast and warmth. I pull the dough from the bowl and press my knuckles into it. The motion is automatic. Fold, push, turn. Fold, push, turn. I've done this every Sunday morning for the past three years. It's the only thing that feels like mine.

Dominic left early. Work, he said. Always work lately. I didn't ask where. I used to ask. I used to get answers that sounded like answers. Now I get the same three words in different arrangements. "Big client meeting." "Conference call." "Back by dinner."

I set the dough in a clean bowl and cover it with a damp towel. My phone buzzes on the counter. I wipe my hands on my jeans and pick it up.

Claire's name is on the screen. Below it, a single line: *you need to see this*.

Then a link.

I stare at it for a moment. Claire doesn't send cryptic messages. She sends paragraphs with too many exclamation points and asks if I want to get brunch. This is different. My thumb hovers over the link. I press it.

The video loads. A ballroom. Crystal chandeliers. Women in gowns that cost more than my car. I recognize the venue immediately—the Langham, downtown LA. One of those charity galas where tickets start at five thousand dollars and everyone pretends the auction money is going somewhere meaningful.

Then I see him.

Dominic is kneeling on the marble floor. His jacket is off. His sleeves are rolled to his elbows. In his hand is a white cloth. He's wiping someone's shoes.

Not someone.

Saige Montgomery.

She's sitting in a chair, one leg extended, her foot resting on Dominic's knee. She's wearing a red dress. Her hair is swept over one shoulder. She's smiling down at him like he's a pet doing a trick.

His hand is on her ankle.

I watch him run the cloth over the strap of her heel. Slowly. Carefully. Like it matters. Like she matters. His thumb brushes the side of her foot and she laughs. The sound doesn't come through the video but I can see it in the way her shoulders shake.

The camera pans. There are people watching. Some of them are smiling. One woman has her phone out, recording her own version. No one looks surprised. No one looks uncomfortable.

This isn't an accident. This isn't a misunderstanding.

I scroll down. The post is from Saige's account. It was uploaded four hours ago. It already has sixty thousand likes.

The caption reads: *Some men know how to treat a woman right. Baby on the way. Mrs. Price has a nice ring to it, don't you think?*

Below the video, there's a photo. A marriage certificate. The names are typed in clean black letters. Dominic Andrew Price. Saige Eleanor Montgomery. The date is from six weeks ago.

I read it twice. Three times. The letters don't change.

My phone buzzes again. Claire's name. A call this time. I don't answer. I set the phone on the counter and step back like it might explode.

Saige Montgomery.

I haven't heard that name in years. I spent three years of high school trying to become invisible because of that name. She shoved me into lockers. She poured juice on my backpack. She called me "charity case" in front of the entire cafeteria and laughed when I cried. Dominic was the one who stepped in. Dominic was the one who told her to stop. Dominic was the one who walked me home every day after that because I was too afraid to walk alone.

I look at the video again. At his hand on her ankle. At the way he's looking up at her.

My chest feels tight. Not like I can't breathe. Like there's a fist inside my ribs, squeezing.

I call him.

It rings. And rings. And rings. Voicemail.

I call again.

Voicemail.

I call a third time. On the fourth ring, he picks up.

"Lena." His voice is calm. Steady. The same voice he uses when he's on a business call. "I'm in the middle of something."

"I saw the video."

Silence. Not the kind where someone is thinking of what to say. The kind where someone already knows.

"We'll talk when I get home," he says.

"Dominic—"

"When I get home."

The line goes dead.

I stand in the kitchen holding my phone. The timer on the oven is beeping. I don't move. The smell of burning bread fills the apartment. I don't move.

I press my thumbnail into my palm. Hard. Harder. Until I feel the skin break.

When Claire arrives an hour later, I'm still standing there. The oven is off. The apartment smells like smoke. She takes one look at me and pulls me into a hug.

"I'm calling a lawyer," she says.

I shake my head. "I need to think first."

"Lena—"

"I need to think."

She doesn't argue. She makes tea I don't drink and sits with me at the kitchen table. I pull up the video again. I watch Dominic's hand on Saige's ankle. I watch him smile.

I think about the last time he smiled at me like that.

I can't remember.