Wearing His Mistresss Coat Tonight Chapter 1

It was two in the morning when my husband’s mistress called.

"Mrs. Lockwood? Harrison got into a brawl over me. The paparazzi are swarming." Her voice was a cocktail of feigned panic and genuine triumph. "You need to come down here. Bring a change of clothes. Fix this."

The audacity wasn't new. In the three years Harrison and I had been married, Paige’s brazenness was the third person in our relationship.

To the public, I was the shield that deflected every scandal, the grace that smoothed over his hedonism. In private, I had screamed, packed bags, and had breakdowns that left me hollow. I had become the punchline of the Upper East Side—the wife who wouldn't leave.

But tonight, I wasn't screaming.

"Fine," I said, my voice steady. "I’m on my way."

* * *

When I arrived at the VIP lounge, the scene was a tableau of chaotic indulgence.

Paige Miller was draped over Harrison, her face flushed, hair artfully messy, clinging to him like a vine. She had mastered the art of looking fragile—tears trembling on her lashes, ready to fall but never quite ruining her makeup.

Harrison Lockwood sat on the velvet sofa, looking bored. Even with bruised knuckles and a split lip, he didn't look defeated. He looked dangerous. His collar was unbuttoned, tie loose, radiating that specific brand of arrogant aggression that comes from knowing you own the building you’re sitting in.

The heir to the Lockwood empire, getting into a fistfight over an assistant. The tabloids would eat well tomorrow.

Seeing me, Paige scrambled up, shedding her coat to offer it to me. "Mrs. Lockwood, thank god."

As she handed it over, the challenge in her eyes settled into a smug calm.

"Harrison hit someone. It’s going to be hard to bury," she whispered, ensuring only I could hear. "But if people find out it was over me, the stock price will tank. I’m sorry you have to do this. But if the narrative is that he was defending his wife’s honor... well, that’s just romantic, isn't it?"

Harrison watched from the sofa, a smirk playing on his lips. He was waiting for the explosion.

"So, Norah," he drawled. "How are we playing the victim tonight?"

Usually, Paige’s "selfless" act was the spark that lit my fuse. But tonight, he miscalculated.

I took the coat. It smelled like her perfume—heavy, floral, cloying. I draped it over my shoulders with the casual indifference of someone accepting a napkin.

"Let's go," I said, checking my watch. "The press is already at the barricades."