Leo sat on the sofa in our villa, drinking soup. Behind him, I could see the oil painting I'd paid a fortune for at auction, and the handcrafted Italian rug I'd had custom-made.
But what made my vision blur with rage was Virginia.
She was wearing my favorite sleepwear. My slippers.
Beaming, she leaned against him, one hand holding up her phone, the other flashing a peace sign.
The caption read:
"Finally able to take care of you while you're sick. Even though I've been misunderstood, the truth speaks for itself. Homemade bone broth, made with love—get well soon. "
I screenshot it and sent it to Leo:
"Living in MY house. Wearing MY clothes. Getting cozy with MY husband. And you call this 'innocent'?!"
His reply came instantly:
"Gladys, she got her clothes dirty making me soup. She's just borrowing something temporarily. She meant well. Don't overthink it."
I laughed—a cold, hollow sound.
"Meant well?"
"More like the soup was an excuse to worm her way into our home and into your bed. Wearing my clothes, playing house—what, does she think if she plays the cuckoo long enough, she'll graduate from mistress to wife?"
"Do you have to be so harsh?"
Leo's tone shifted, an edge creeping in: