Our Anniversary, Their Birthday Chapter 1

Every year on our anniversary, Ethan sent a gift. Something extravagant, six figures, a Tiffany key for a car I didn’t need or a watch that told time I no longer felt was mine. It was his penance for working late, for breaking another promise to be home. This year, our fifth, was no different.

Only this time, I decided to surprise him. I showed up at his downtown office, a bottle of the twenty-year-old scotch he loved tucked in my bag, ready to toast to the man I still believed in.

But his assistant, a polished young woman I didn’t recognize, blocked the doorway to his corner suite.

“I’m sorry, Ma’am,” she said, her voice smooth as glass. “But today is Mr. Hayes’s anniversary with his wife. It’s also his son’s fourth birthday.” She gave me a tight, dismissive smile. “He’s instructed me that he’s not to be disturbed. No clients tonight.”

I stood frozen, the words refusing to arrange themselves into any logical order in my mind. His wife? His son? Before I could ask what she meant, the office door swung open and a little boy burst out. He was wearing an adorable birthday hat and waving a bright green water pistol. He had Ethan’s eyes—the same deep-set, serious gaze, now narrowed at me with suspicion.

“Who are you?” he demanded, his voice high and clear. “Are you the bad lady trying to steal my daddy from my mommy?”

And just like that, a stream of cold water hit me square in the face.

Droplets trickled down from the ends of my hair, but I barely felt them. My entire world had narrowed to the face of that child.

Before we got married, Ethan had been clear. He wanted to be child-free. He didn’t like kids. So we were always careful. Sometimes, when we forgot in the heat of the moment, he would watch me take the pill the next morning, his gaze intense. He’d pull me into his arms after, his voice a low rumble against my ear. “A kid would just be a rival for your affection,” he’d murmur. “And I don’t share you, Chloe. Not with anyone.”

But here was the truth. Not long after we were married, he had started a family with someone else.

* * *

The door opened again. The little boy scrambled back inside, launching himself into my husband's arms.

He pointed a small, triumphant finger at my dripping face. “Daddy, was I brave?”

Ethan’s gaze met mine, and for a second, he looked like a deer caught in the headlights. Standing beside him, a woman with sleek, dark hair looped her arm through his, standing on her toes to press a kiss to his cheek, right in front of me.

“Happy anniversary, honey,” she purred.

He finally snapped out of it, setting the boy down and gently disentangling himself from the woman’s arm. A smudge of what looked like buttercream was dotted on the tip of his nose. He wouldn’t meet my eyes.

I knew the woman beside him.

Isabelle. His first assistant.

She had quit right after the company finally found its footing. I never thought I’d see her again.

My brain started to function again, slow and grinding like rusty gears. My eyes were locked on Ethan, a tremor starting deep in my bones and spreading outwards.

Isabelle stepped forward, a triumphant little smile playing on her lips.

“Chloe, isn't it? Is there something you needed this late?” she asked, her eyes flicking over my damp clothes. “Ethan is with his family tonight. He’s not available.”

If they were his family, then what was I? His legal, lawfully wedded wife?

A bitter, acidic taste rose in my throat. Isabelle stood there in her designer dress, her makeup flawless, a smug little smirk on her face.

“Maybe you should just go home, Chloe,” she suggested sweetly.

The little boy at her feet chimed in, his voice shrill. “Go home! Go home! Stop trying to steal my daddy!” he chanted. “Bad lady! You’re the bad lady who wants my daddy!”

“You’re ugly!”

Compared to the perfectly put-together Isabelle, he was right. I was a wreck.

And through it all, Ethan said nothing.

My heart felt like it was being physically torn in two. I stared at him, my look a silent plea for an explanation, for anything.

He finally looked away. “Whatever it is, we can talk about it tomorrow,” he said, his voice cold.

The new assistant saw her opening. She grabbed my arm, her grip surprisingly strong, and hustled me toward the elevators. Her eyes were full of contempt.

“So you’re the mistress, huh?” she sneered, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “You know, you’re supposed to stay hidden. Showing up at the main event? God, have some self-respect.”

She shoved me out into the hallway. The elevator doors slid shut, leaving me with my reflection.

The gift for my husband was still in my hand.

The scene in the office, the assistant’s sneering words—mistress, mistress, mistress—played on a loop in my head.

I stumbled out onto the street, the city lights blurring through the tears I refused to let fall. I pulled out my phone. One call to Ethan. Voicemail. A second. A third. Ten in a row, each one a bleating cry into the void before being cut off. Declined.

I let out a hollow laugh that sounded like a sob. Looking up at the single bright rectangle of his office window against the dark skyscraper, I walked to the nearest trash can and dropped the bottle of twenty-year-old scotch inside. It landed with a dull, final thud.