Cleaning For My Husbands Secret Mistress Chapter 2

I swallowed the scream building in my throat and glanced past the receptionist. It was a boutique operation, maybe thirty employees, sleek modern furniture. Not a Fortune 500, but definitely not the warehouse job he claimed to have.

There was a small coffee shop downstairs. I bought a four-dollar lemonade and sat by the window.

Normally, that four dollars would have haunted me for days. That was a dinner for my family. That was two pairs of socks for my daughter, Hallie. That was a treat she’d beg for but I’d have to deny.

I took a sip. It was sour, stinging my tongue. With shaking fingers, I downloaded a business registry app and typed in Russell’s name.

There it was. Russell Davis. CEO. Founder. Board Member.

Registered seven years ago. Capital: $200,000. E-commerce.

I remembered that year. He had come home, lifting me off the ground, spinning me around until we were both dizzy. “Babe, I got a job! Three thousand a month! We’re going to be okay!”

I believed him. God, I believed him.

Back then, we were both nobodies. I was stocking shelves; he was inventory management. We fell in love in the breakroom of a logistics center. When Hallie was born, his mother’s health collapsed. I quit my job to care for the baby and the invalid.

I ran the house. I nursed his mother through strokes and bedsores. When my back ached so bad I couldn't stand, Russell would massage my shoulders, whispering, "I'm sorry, Meredith. I know it's hard. Thank you."

The irony tasted like bile.

When my lemonade was half gone, a sleek black SUV pulled up to the curb.

Russell stepped out.

He wasn't wearing the faded, stained sweatpants he’d left the house in this morning. He was in a tailored charcoal suit that fit him perfectly. He walked around the car and opened the passenger door.

A woman stepped out.

High heels. A dress that hugged curves I hadn't possessed in a decade. Glossy black hair, porcelain skin. She couldn't have been more than twenty-five.

Russell took her hand, interlacing their fingers, and led her into the building.

My heart didn't break; it shattered. It felt like my chest was caving in.

I had imagined this scene a thousand times in nightmares—storming in, screaming, tearing his reputation to shreds. But in reality? I just felt... empty.

My phone buzzed. A text from Hallie.

Mom, where are you? I’m starving.

The tears finally came, hot and fast, splashing onto my cracked phone screen.

My daughter. Hallie was in middle school. She didn't buy lunch; I made it every morning. I picked her up every night at 9:30 PM after her extracurriculars because we couldn't afford the bus fare.

Her father wouldn't spend five dollars on her lunch, but he was spending ten thousand a month on this woman.

I took a deep breath, wiping my face with my rough sleeve. I opened Uber Eats and ordered ribs, fries, and a salad to be delivered to Hallie’s school.

The internet was right: If you don't spend your husband's money, someone else will.

I waited.

I waited until Russell and the woman came out. I followed their SUV in a cab, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

They drove to a gated community in the suburbs—the kind of place with manicured lawns and HOA fees higher than my rent.

Thirty minutes later, they emerged. But there was a third person.

A boy. Maybe six years old.

I watched through the tint of the taxi window as the boy ran to Russell, shouting, "Daddy!"

He had a son.

The boy looked exactly like him. The eyes, the chin. It was a dagger twisting in my open wound.