I met her eyes without backing down. "Why don't you ask your husband whether it's real or fake? Or better yet, why don't the three of us talk together?"
She clearly hated my attitude, as if I were provoking her.
"Gerald is busy. I won't let him waste time on trivial things like this."
"I won't be swayed by you. I trust him."
As she spoke, she somehow began convincing herself instead of me.
"Men always have mistresses. Which rich, powerful man doesn't? Who hasn't tasted what's outside?"
When she said "tasted," she dragged out the word deliberately, turning it filthy.
"I came today to show you respect as the mistress."
"But if you keep shamelessly clinging to my husband, don't blame me for what happens next."
Her gaze sharpened, waiting for me to break and admit fault.
I let out a soft, cold laugh.
"Ms. Barnes, has it ever occurred to you that you might be the other woman?"
"I think both of us are victims here. We shouldn't be fighting each other. All of this—every bit of it—started because of Gerald."
"He's the one who owes us an explanation. Not you to me, and not me to you."
She sneered, looking at me like I was a stubborn fool refusing to accept reality.