My Husband Kissed Another Girl in the Crowd

The phone only rang once before a voice poured through the speaker—silky, dangerous, unmistakable. “Well, look who decided to resurrect herself,” he drawled. “Tell me, bella, what made you dial my number again?” My throat burned, but my voice came out steady. “I’ll marry you,” I said, tasting the last of my dignity crumble, “but only if you help me bury Griffin Mercer and everything he’s ever built.” Silence. Then a low, amused hum. “A proposal and a vendetta in the same breath,” he purred. “You never disappoint. When do you want me there?” “Six days,” I answered. “I have a few ghosts to put to rest first.” I ended the call, let the burner phone fall onto the mattress, and stared at my reflection. The woman in the mirror wasn’t fragile anymore. She wasn’t broken. She looked like someone who had finally woken up. And Griffin? He had no idea he’d just trained me to become the very weapon that would ruin him. --- Griffin didn’t come home that night. Not that I could’ve slept anyway. The pain radiating from the surgical wound pulsed like a sick heartbeat. The emptiness in my abdomen felt like a cavern carved open by cruelty. My baby was gone. My body was butchered. I cried until my throat went raw and my lungs felt bruised. But by the time the sky lightened, something inside me had calcified. No tears. No begging. Just a hollow, ruthless clarity. The doctor walked in like it was any ordinary morning, chart in hand, pretending he wasn’t part of the nightmare. “How are you feeling today, Mrs. Mercer?” I didn’t look at him. “When can I leave?” He blinked, startled. “I—I’ll get your discharge paperwork started.” I didn’t need recovery. I needed revenge. The moment he stepped out, I grabbed another burner phone and dialed a lawyer whose number I’d memorized for emergencies. “I want to file for divorce,” I said flatly. “Understood,” came the crisp reply. “E-documents are on the way. You should have the official papers within seventy-two hours.” I hung up without a thank you. A few minutes later, the doctor returned—this time with Griffin’s driver lingering awkwardly beside him. “Ma’am,” the driver said softly, “Mr. Mercer sent me to bring you home. He’s… uh… cooking dinner for you.” I almost laughed. Griffin didn’t know the first thing about what I liked. Five years married, and he still thought my favorite food was something I wouldn’t survive eating. I forced a nod. “Fine. Take me.” --- The mansion looked exactly as it always had—cold, pristine, staged like a show home. Not an inch out of place. Not a whisper of warmth. But the scene in the living room made my stomach twist. Celeste. Lounging on my couch like royalty, draped in a crimson dress hugging her pregnant belly. One manicured hand holding a wine glass she didn’t even pretend to hide. Her posture said everything: she thought she belonged here. Hovering beside her like some proud mother hen was Griffin’s mother—the same woman who once hissed that her son “made a charitable decision” by marrying a girl with no pedigree. My chest tightened. My muscles locked. Celeste glanced up, lips curving into a syrupy smile. “Oh. You finally made it back, Abigail.” Before I could respond, my mother-in-law snapped, voice sharp as glass, “Why is she even here? She was never fit to stand beside my son. I don’t know why he didn’t toss her ungrateful, barren behind out years ago.” My nails dug into my palms. I tasted blood. I said nothing. I had heard worse from the world. I turned toward the staircase. I barely took three steps before fingers tangled in my hair and yanked—hard. “AH—!” My head jerked back. My balance faltered. The slap that followed came fast and vicious, her heavy ring slicing my cheek open. “You disrespectful whore,” she snarled. “You can’t even greet your elders? Did you forget manners while you were killing your bastard child?” My sight blurred—not from pain. From fury so sharp it tasted metallic. Slowly, I straightened, turned, and met her gaze head-on. “Why don’t you ask your precious son,” I rasped, “why my daughter died?” Everything fell silent. Celeste froze. Griffin’s mother stiffened, her certainty wavering. “Ask him,” I repeated, louder, “where he was while I was strapped to a filthy bed begging for my baby. Ask him why he took his mistress to a concert while he paid men to slaughter my little girl—for her.” Celeste’s face drained of color. My mother-in-law stared, stunned. Then—another slap. Hard enough to make my ears ring. “Stop blaming my son for your failures,” she spat. “You couldn’t even defend your own womb. You were never meant to be a mother.” I stumbled back. And then— “That’s enough, Ma.” Griffin’s voice cut clean through the room. He walked in wearing an apron, wiping his hands on a towel like some doting husband preparing a home-cooked meal. A wooden spoon dangled from his fingers. “Don’t talk to her like that,” he said mildly. Then he turned to me, reached for my face like nothing was wrong, like I didn’t know the truth. “How are you holding up, sweetheart?” I flinched away, revulsion twisting through me. His expression tightened. “Abigail. Apologize. To my mother. And to Celeste. That behavior isn’t acceptable.” A laugh scraped out of me—dry, hollow, poisonous. “What are they doing in my house?” “She always speaks to you like this?” his mother cut in. Celeste sighed, dramatic and fragile. “Maybe I should give you two some space. I don’t want to be the reason for more stress.” And then— A small voice. “Daddy? Why is that lady yelling?” I turned slowly. A little girl stood in the hallway. Four, maybe five. Dark curls. Big hazel eyes. Griffin’s dimples. My heart stopped. “Who is that?” I whispered. Griffin didn’t hesitate. “Oh, Celeste’s daughter from her late husband. She’s a widow now. And since she’s pregnant and the house is too large, they’ll be living with us for a while.” My jaw trembled. “And she calls you Daddy?” He shrugged. “Kids get attached. I don’t want to upset her.” My laugh broke out—low, heartless. So that was it. She was his child. Their child. He murdered mine because she was a girl, but kept this one because she fit his perfect little narrative. He walked toward the dining table, proudly unveiling a steaming dish. “I made your favorite.” The smell hit me—briny, sharp. Shellfish. I was allergic. Extremely. Five years together, and he didn’t remember. Or maybe he did. My stomach twisted violently. I bent over and threw up onto the marble floor. Celeste leapt backward with a shriek. “Oh my God, Abigail! Really? You couldn’t just ask me to leave? Did you have to puke on me and my daughter?”

I swiped the back of my hand across my mouth, shooting her a cold stare. “You’re practically across the room,” I muttered. “Don’t flatter yourself.” Before I could even steady myself, Griffin’s fingers clamped around my arm, hard enough to bruise. He jerked me downward, forcing me onto my knees like he wanted to grind me into the floor. “So you insist on behaving like filth?” he whispered, his voice razor-sharp, his eyes dead as stone. “Then stay where filth belongs.” His face hovered inches from mine, breath hot and furious. “Say you’re sorry,” he demanded, his voice trembling with barely contained rage. “Right now. Or I swear I’ll make you lick that mess off the tiles like the mutt you’re acting like.” I stared straight into his face. “You should’ve finished me off when you had the chance, Griffin,” I said quietly. “Because now? There’s nothing left of me you can threaten.” Before he could reply, Celeste whimpered behind him, one hand clutching her stomach like she’d been stabbed. “Griffin… the smell… I’m dizzy… I—I think I’m going to pass out.” He dropped me like I was nothing and sprinted toward her, scooping her up as though she were spun glass. “Clean it up,” he barked without so much as a backward glance, disappearing down the hallway with the people he actually cared about. His mother brushed past, her voice a venomous hiss. “Disgrace.” I wiped my face. Cleaned the floor. Played the obedient wife. And then I went upstairs. --- Our bedroom looked like the aftermath of a break-in—except I was the intruder dismantling my own life. Five years. Five years of sleeping beside that man. Trusting him. Believing in the promises he fed me so easily. I sat on the edge of the bed and opened the drawer. Inside was a sealed envelope—the resignation letter I’d written weeks before, back when I still believed peace was waiting for me after childbirth. Back when I still thought leaving the family business meant entering a softer, safer chapter. That version of me was dead. I folded the letter together with the incomplete divorce documents. Then I rose and began ripping everything else apart. Photographs of us in Italy, our wedding day, the housewarming party in our first home—lies stapled to the wall. I tore them down one by one. Tossed every necklace, ring, bracelet he’d ever given me into a box like scrap metal. I’d just pulled a portrait off its hook when the door swung open. Griffin stepped inside. His expression darkened. “What the hell is all this?” I didn’t even blink. “I’m getting rid of everything you ever gifted me. I don’t need any of it.” “Is this because of what happened earlier?” he asked, guiding himself toward me. “I lost my temper. I’ll buy you something better. Just… put in a little effort with Celeste, okay? She means a lot to me. I trust her completely.” I lifted my eyes. “Fine.” “She’s staying,” he said firmly. “Whether you like it or not. I’ll send her up so you two can patch things up.” He kissed my cheek—because I refused to turn my face—and walked out as though the matter was settled. --- Ten minutes later, Celeste strutted into the bedroom without knocking. She looked around as though the space was already hers. “Perfect. Clear your stuff out. I’ll be moving in soon.” I didn’t bother turning to look at her. “Take it all. I won’t be here long.” A laugh spilled out of her, high and victorious. “Oh, Griffin filled me in. And since you’ve been such a headache, want to know something I’ve been keeping from you? My daughter—yeah, the one I ‘co-parent’ with my ex? She’s Griffin’s. I’ve been with him for years.” Her smile sharpened. “But I’m not the side piece anymore. I’m pregnant with his son now. A real heir. Unlike you. You gave him a girl… and well, she didn’t survive. Tough luck. But honestly? She was never meant to be part of the plan.” I lowered myself onto the bed slowly, like the air had thickened. “If that’s what you need to tell yourself to sleep at night… enjoy it. If my grief entertains you, go ahead. Soak in every drop.” Her grin wavered. “Why aren’t you yelling? Why aren’t you throwing things?” she snapped. “Aren’t you furious? Griffin did all of this because I told him to!” I looked her in the eye, my voice steady. “Congratulations. You win. He’s yours.” Something inside her cracked. “You pathetic little bitch!” she shrieked, lunging at me and grabbing my wrist. “Let go,” I warned. Instead, she jerked harder, trying to drag me toward the hall—then suddenly she dropped my arm, staggered backward, and screamed. “Abigail—NO!” She hurled herself backward down the stairs. The sound—bones hitting wood, a scream shattering, a final sickening crash—echoed up the entire house. Footsteps thundered toward her. Griffin. His mother. His daughter, Sienna. They froze at the bottom. Celeste lay twisted on the floor, blood pooling beneath her. Griffin’s gaze snapped up to me. His eyes were wild, bloodshot, murderous. “What the hell did you do?!” I remained at the top of the staircase, clutching the railing, my pulse pounding like war drums. It wasn’t Celeste’s fall that tore me open—it was Sienna’s scream. “Mama! Mommy!” Her tiny hands shook Celeste’s body, tears streaming down her face. Then Griffin looked at me again. Those eyes—once warm, once protective—were now an executioner’s blade. “If she dies,” he said, voice cracking like ice under weight, “or if the baby does… you better pray hell takes you first.” He lifted Celeste in his arms like a tragic hero while David clung to his side, sobbing. Griffin’s mother spat at me as she passed. “You cursed whore! Rot!” No one asked for my side. No one paused to wonder. Celeste had always had them wrapped tight around her finger; all she needed was a scream and they turned me into a monster. I stood there until my legs went numb. Then two of Griffin’s guards stormed up the stairs. They didn’t speak. Didn’t hesitate. They seized my arms, twisted them behind me, and dragged me like I was a criminal they were eager to dispose of. “Let go of me! I didn’t do anything!” I screamed, but my voice cracked, falling useless in the air. Marrying the devil means your screams don’t matter. They shoved me into one of Griffin’s black SUVs—the ones used for disappearances—and drove. When we stopped, my heart dropped. His private clinic. The same place where inconvenient bodies and mistakes vanished behind locked doors. The guards hauled me inside. Griffin was waiting in the hallway. “Griffin! Listen to me. I never touched her, I—” His hand flashed. The slap snapped my head sideways. My mouth flooded with the metallic taste of blood. He leaned in, hatred burning in his eyes. “I’m finished with your lies. You’re going to donate blood to Celeste. You shoved her, and now you’ll save her.” I spat blood onto the floor, wiped my lip, and glared up at him. “I didn’t push her. And she’s not getting anything from me.” That broke him. His fingers closed around my throat so suddenly I lost my breath. I clawed at his hands, my feet scrambling against the tile. “C-Griffin—please—” I choked, gasping, vision blurring. “Enough, Mr. Mercer!” the doctor shouted, rushing forward. “You’ll kill her!”

His grip loosened, and I crumpled onto the floor, sucking in air like I had been drowning. The room spun in jagged circles. “You’re not done,” Griffin said coldly. Then he turned toward the doctor. “Take her blood. As much as you can. Leave her enough so she doesn’t die before I’m finished with her.” The doctor froze. “Sir… her vitals aren’t stable. After yesterday’s trauma, she’s already severely weakened. The blood supply—” Griffin slammed him into the wall by the throat, his voice a snarl. “When I give an order, you don’t negotiate. You follow it. You’re not running a charity here.” After that, the doctor didn’t dare argue. Two guards pinned me down while the needle dug into my arm. I felt the pull—slow, steady, draining everything inside me. A cold wave washed over me. Then nothing. --- A tidal wave of freezing water hit me like a blow. I jolted awake, coughing, shaking uncontrollably. Everything was blurry, my body heavy and foreign. “On your feet,” Griffin snapped. I tried, but my legs buckled. I hit the tile again. He yanked me upright by my hair, ripping a scream out of me. “Griffin—stop—please,” I gasped, shivering so hard my teeth clattered. “I can’t—I’m freezing—” “You think that matters to me?” he roared. “You really think I don’t know what stunt you pulled?” I blinked through watery vision. “What the hell are you accusing me of now?” “You ordered someone to snatch my daughter!” he shouted in my face, spit flying. “Sienna’s gone! Missing! And while you’re here pretending to die, your people are out there taking revenge for you.” A wild laugh tore out of me—ugly, cracked, hysterical. “You just said your daughter,” I whispered. “Funny how she counts when you want a victim. You had that child with another woman while married to me.” He snarled. “Celeste is the mother of my children. You always knew she was part of my life. You just couldn’t stand being the backup.” “You think I’d hurt a kid?” I snapped. “Did you forget what losing one feels like? Or did my daughter’s body in that trash bin not remind you what innocence is worth?” He didn’t react. Not even a flinch. “Save your theatrics,” he said. “I’ve got evidence.” Two guards dragged in a trembling, half-starved man. He collapsed to his knees. “She paid me,” he sobbed, pointing a shaking hand at me. “She told me to take the kid—kill him if I had to. I swear I didn’t know she belonged to you, boss. Please don’t kill me.” I stared at him, stunned. “I’ve never seen this man before. Ever.” “You just don’t stop lying,” Griffin snarled. He grabbed my arm so violently I felt something pop in my shoulder. “You confess now, or you’ll regret breathing.” “I didn’t do anything,” I whispered. That didn’t matter. Next thing I knew, we were on his private jet—the one used for disappearances. The one people boarded and never returned from. He didn’t speak for nearly an hour. Just sat there, seething, vibrating with fury. Then, without warning, he stood up, unlatched the door, and shoved it open. Wind exploded into the cabin, deafening and violent. “Say it,” he commanded. “Admit what you did.” My heart rammed against my ribs. “Griffin, please! Close the door!” His lips curved in a cruel smile. “You always were terrified of heights.” “Griffin—Griffin, don’t—!” He leaned close. “Then give me something worth hearing.” And with one vicious movement… he pushed. The scream ripped out of me as the sky swallowed me whole. --- I woke screeching, clawing at the air, convinced I was still falling. My throat burned. My vision snapped into focus. White ceiling. Harsh light. Antiseptic. A beeping machine. A hospital. “You’re safe now, Mrs. Mercer,” the doctor murmured. His voice was somewhere far away. But the faces in the room dragged me back into hell. Griffin stood by the door, arms crossed like a judge waiting for a confession. Celeste curled in a chair beside my bed, her eyes glistening with perfectly staged tears. His mother hovered with a look of disgust sharp enough to cut glass. “How do you feel?” Celeste asked in a trembling voice, pretending concern. I ignored her. “What happened?” I demanded. Before the doctor could speak, Griffin stormed forward. “What happened?” he repeated mockingly. “Celeste saved your life, that’s what. I shoved you, yes, and she—this woman you hate—put a gun to her own head threatening to pull the trigger unless I caught you before you hit the floor. So I did. And you still fainted. She hasn’t slept in two days watching over you. And this is how you act?” A laugh burst from me—broken, disbelieving, painful. “Oh, you’re unbelievable,” I whispered. “You want applause now? You nearly killed me and want me to thank you for not finishing the job?” His mother snapped, “Ungrateful witch. You should’ve stayed on that ground. We’d all be better off.” “Yeah?” I said, looking Griffin dead in the eye. “Maybe you’re right. Then you two wouldn’t have to hide what you did to my baby.” Silence. Thick. Poisonous. Griffin clicked his tongue. “She’s delirious. Drugged up. Let’s go, Maddie.” But Celeste stayed, grabbing my hand like we were intimate friends. “This is all my fault,” she whispered, voice shaking. “I never meant for it to go this far.” I yanked my hand away, revulsion crawling up my spine. “Don’t touch me.” Griffin caught her gently, protective to the point of madness. “Show some gratitude,” he said to me. “If Celeste didn’t have such a soft heart, I’d have broken every bone in your body for speaking to her that way.” They left as if they were the victims. “I want to go home,” I told the doctor, numb. He nodded silently and arranged my discharge. --- Back home, the first thing I saw was a thick envelope waiting for me. Divorce papers. Finally. I grabbed my old resignation letter too. The only thing left was getting Griffin’s signature—but I couldn’t let him know what he was signing. I was planning how to distract him when the door slammed open. Griffin walked in, tossing a black garment bag onto the couch. “Put that on,” he ordered. “We have a meeting with the Russians in twenty minutes. Celeste’s coming with me. You’ll stay in the background so you don’t embarrass us.” “Why not let your mistress handle it?” I said calmly. “She’ll be at my side. You? You’re staff.” I shoved the papers at him. “I need your signature. Hospital release paperwork.” He flipped it open, barely glanced at the pages, and grabbed a pen. “What is—” “Baby!” Celeste called from somewhere in the house. “Come look at this dress!” His entire expression softened like whipped cream. He smiled—actually smiled—and scribbled his signature across both pages without a second thought. He didn’t read a word.

I should’ve fallen apart right then—sobbed, screamed, begged for something, anything—but instead, a strange relief washed over me. Because if he was yelling at me, it meant he hadn’t found the envelope tucked deep inside my coat: the divorce petition and my resignation letter, each one already notarized, my final goodbye to this ruin of a life. I stepped into the black dress he’d once insisted I wear for him—sleek, sharp, the neckline a deliberate dare. It slid over my battered ribs and fading bruises like silk pretending to be armor. By the time I caught my reflection, I didn’t even recognize the woman staring back. She looked polished. Controlled. Not like someone who’d spent the night making escape plans. When I reached the foyer, I felt his eyes sweep over me. A flicker of something—surprise, possession, irritation—crossed his face. But the moment Celeste strutted in on stiletto heels, reeking of expensive perfume and self-satisfaction, I vanished from his attention as easily as a shadow at noon. On the way to the soirée, I settled in the back seat of his black SUV. I didn’t say a word. Just watched the lights of the city ripple past my window—the same city I was hours away from abandoning for good. Up front, Celeste behaved exactly how she always did when she wanted his eyes on her: loud, touchy, sugary-sweet in a way that made my skin crawl. She curled an arm through Griffin’s, leaning her head onto his shoulder like she owned him. “This car,” she cooed, dragging her manicured fingers over his sleeve, “was where we had our very first kiss. God, do you remember how wild we were?” Griffin stiffened, but only slightly. “Yeah, babe,” he answered under his breath. Then he glanced at me in the mirror—like he needed to gauge whether I’d heard. I didn’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. I was busy confirming my flight for tomorrow night. One-way. New name. New country. No more Mafia politics. No more betrayals. No more Griffin Mercer and his monstrous family. As I leaned back, something crackled under me. I shifted—and froze. A damp, lacy thong lay crumpled beside me on the leather seat. My chest clenched violently. Before I could even form words, Celeste twisted around, eyes sparkling like this was the best entertainment she’d had all week. “Oh nooo,” she gasped theatrically. “Oops. That’s mine! Griffin, babe, didn’t I tell you to keep that hidden?” She laughed, a high, tinkling sound made of pure venom. “I swear I told you to put my underwear away after last night.” Griffin didn’t blush. Didn’t apologize. Didn’t even pretend to be ashamed. He simply reached back, plucked the still-warm scrap of fabric from the seat, lifted it to his face— And smelled it. “Hm,” he murmured smugly. “Peaches.” Then he tucked it into his pocket like a prize. My stomach lurched. Not from disgust—though there was plenty of that—but from the realization of how small he truly was. How small I had made myself to love him. They giggled together like hormone-drunk teenagers while I sat behind them, suffocating in their rot. And yet, I smiled. Soft. Almost serene. Because by tomorrow, they’d wake up without me—and without the silence I’d gifted them for far too long. And that silence? It was the last mercy they would ever receive. --- When we finally arrived at the venue, Celeste latched onto Griffin’s arm as if she were welded there, while I trailed behind them like some underpaid assistant. Every time a guest mistakenly greeted her as “Mrs. Mercer,” Griffin’s lips twitched—but he never corrected them. Not even once. I was counting down the minutes until I could sneak out and disappear when it happened. Rapid pops. Screams. The sharp, metallic crack of gunfire. People dove to the ground. Chairs toppled. The air filled with chaos. And Griffin’s immediate instinct? He threw himself over Celeste, shielding her with his entire body, as if she were a priceless artifact instead of the woman ruining our marriage. I stood in shock for a single heartbeat—and then pain tore through my left side. White-hot, unforgiving. I hit the floor, breath ripped from my lungs. “C-Griffin…” I choked, reaching toward him, blood quickly soaking through the black silk. “Please…help…” He looked back. For an instant, something warm flickered across his expression—panic, disbelief, maybe even regret. He rushed toward me, pressing his palm to the wound. “Stay with me, Abigail. Fuck, just—just stay awake.” But then— “Griffin!” Celeste shrieked. “The baby! I can’t move!” And just like that, he chose. He dropped me. Literally let me hit the ground. Didn’t look twice. He scooped Celeste into his arms like some tragic hero in a melodrama. “You’re tough,” he shouted to me over his shoulder. “You’ll survive this. She won’t.” Then they were gone. Gone, while I lay there bleeding out on a marble floor. Alone. Again. Celeste cast a triumphant little smirk back at me as Griffin carried her out. A reminder that she’d taken everything—and he’d let her. Gunfire echoed somewhere beyond the walls, but no one came for me. Not Griffin. Not even his guards. By the time I staggered outside, half-conscious and leaving a trail of blood behind me, the entire operation had cleared out—left me like abandoned cargo. The hospital stitched me up yet again. The nurse didn’t even blink. She’d seen me too many times. When I finally returned to the estate, I thought—stupidly—that there might be concern. Panic. Maybe a single phone call asking where the hell I’d gone. Instead, I walked into the dining hall to find them all at the long table. Griffin. Celeste. Sienna. His mother. Damian. Laughing. Drinking. Cutting into thick slabs of steak. As if I hadn’t bled for them hours earlier. Griffin’s face stilled when he noticed me. Guilt flashed, but it disappeared as quickly as it came. He approached. “She was in bad shape,” he said lowly. “I had to rush Celeste to the ER. It was critical.” “Really?” I replied, voice like ice. “Guess my blood didn’t count.” I didn’t wait for his excuses. I turned and climbed the stairs to what used to be our shared bedroom—that cage he called a home. I pulled out the small wooden box hidden beneath the bed: our wedding ring, faded notes, cheap photographs, vows scribbled on napkins from that ridiculous Vegas chapel. I carried it all out to the steel burning barrel in the backyard. Struck a match. Dropped it in. I watched the flames devour the pieces of my past: the sweet parts, the bitter ones, the delusions disguised as love. Griffin burst outside when he smelled the smoke. “Have you completely lost it?!” he shouted. He grabbed the extinguisher, but the fire had already reduced nearly everything to ash. All he managed to save was a half-charred wedding photo—his arm around my waist, me smiling like I hadn’t yet learned what monsters could hide behind tailored suits. “You’re out of your damn mind,” he snapped. “Do you hear yourself?” I met his fury with absolute calm. “I’m done, Griffin,” I said. “I want a divorce.”