How did it go with David, he asked, warming his hands around his own mug. I shrugged. About as expected.
Denial, then bargaining, then accusations that you and I are having an affair. Mark’s eyebrow raised slightly. Elise suggested the same thing.
Apparently, we were very convincing dinner companions. Guilty consciences project, I observed. How is she taking it? Poorly.
Mark took a sip of coffee. She cycled between tears, rage, and calculating how much of our assets she could claim. I’ve already moved to the guest room and scheduled a locksmith to change the codes to my home office.
You think she would take things? I think Elise is nothing if not pragmatic about her self-interest. His tone was matter-of-fact rather than bitter. She knows the prenuptial agreement limits what she can claim unless she can prove certain breaches on my part.
I wouldn’t put it past her to manufacture evidence. That sounds… exhausting. It is.
He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture so reminiscent of David that I felt a momentary pain. But enough about our marital disasters. How are you really doing, Catherine? The sincerity in his question caught me off guard.
Since discovering David’s betrayal, I’d been so focused on my plan, on maintaining composure, on the mechanics of separation, that I hadn’t truly allowed myself to feel the full weight of what had happened. I don’t know, I admitted. Sometimes I’m angry, sometimes numb.
Sometimes I wonder if I’m overreacting, if I should have given him another chance. I looked down at my coffee. Is that pathetic? Not at all.
Mark’s voice was gentle. Twelve years is a significant investment. It’s natural to question whether it’s worth salvaging.
But you’re not questioning your decision to divorce Elise, I pointed out. Mark was quiet for a moment. Our situations are different.
Elise and I, the affair was just the final chapter of a story that’s been ending for years. We stayed together for Sofia, for appearances, for convenience. When I found out about David, I wasn’t even surprised, just disappointed that she’d been so careless.
The blunt assessment of his marriage made me wonder about my own. Had David and I been slowly disconnecting for years without my noticing? Had I been so wrapped up in my design work, in creating perfect spaces for others, that I’d missed the decay in my own home? I keep wondering what I missed, I confessed. What signs I overlooked.
Don’t do that to yourself, Mark said firmly. Their choices are not your responsibility. Logically, I know that.
Emotionally. I shrugged. It’s harder.
It gets easier. He hesitated, then added, after my first divorce, I spent months analyzing every conversation, every argument, trying to pinpoint where things went wrong. Your first divorce? I was surprised, he hadn’t mentioned a previous marriage.
Before a lease. I was very young, 25, just out of law school. It lasted less than two years.
A shadow crossed his face. Different circumstances, similar outcome. I’m sorry.
Don’t be. It taught me valuable lessons. One being that relationships end, but life continues.
He smiled slightly. And that it’s possible to rebuild, to find happiness again, even when it seems impossible in the moment. His words offered a perspective I badly needed, a glimpse of life beyond the immediate pain and chaos.
Thank you for saying that, I said softly. And four, all of this. Supporting a stranger through her marital collapse wasn’t how you planned to spend your week, I’m sure.
We’re hardly strangers anymore, Mark pointed out. And as for support, it’s mutual. Having an ally in this mess has made it more bearable.
We fell into comfortable conversation after that, deliberately steering away from the subject of our spouses to discover more about each other. I learned that Mark had grown up in a small town in Pennsylvania, had worked his way through college and law school, and that photography had been his passion since his father gave him an old camera for his 12th birthday. In turn, I told him about my childhood in California, my early interest in architecture that evolved into interior design, and my dream of someday designing a small boutique hotel from the ground up.
You should do it, he said when I mentioned this last ambition. Life’s too short to postpone the things that matter to you. Maybe I will, I replied, surprised to find I meant it.
Once the dust settles. We talked until the cafe began to empty, the afternoon crowd departing as evening approached. When we finally left, the sun was setting, casting long shadows across the street.
Would you like to get dinner? Mark asked as we stood outside. Nothing fancy, there’s a good Thai place around the corner. I hesitated, suddenly aware of how our meeting might appear to outsiders or to our respective spouses, should they hear about it.
I’m not sure that’s a good idea. Mark immediately nodded. Of course.
I didn’t mean to presume. It’s not that I don’t want to, I clarified. It’s just, complicated.
The timing, the circumstances. I understand completely. His smile was genuine.
Raincheck, perhaps. When things are less complicated. I’d like that.
We parted with an awkward moment of indecision, handshake? Hug? Simple goodbye, before settling on a brief, slightly formal embrace that nonetheless left me feeling steadier than I had in days. Back at my hotel, I ordered room service and opened my laptop to check emails. Among the usual client correspondence was a message from Mark, sent just minutes after we’d parted.
Catherine. I realized I never properly thanked you for your courage in bringing Elise’s infidelity to my attention. Many would have dealt with their own situation privately without considering the other affected party.
Your integrity in difficult circumstances is remarkable. If you need any assistance navigating the legal aspects of your separation, please don’t hesitate to ask. While I can’t represent you directly due to conflict of interest, I can recommend several excellent divorce attorneys who would serve you well.
Take care of yourself in the days ahead. Mark. I read the email twice, struck by its formality compared to our easy conversation earlier.
Yet something about its tone was comforting, a reminder that whatever connection we were forming was built on mutual respect rather than desperate rebound attraction. I replied simply, Thank you, Mark. Your support means more than you know.
Catherine. Then I closed my laptop and stared out the hotel window at the city lights, feeling, for the first time since discovering David’s betrayal, that I might eventually be okay. The following weeks passed in a blur of practical necessities, meetings with my lawyer, negotiations over asset division, finding a suitable apartment to rent while the divorce proceeded.
David continued his campaign of reconciliation through increasingly desperate text messages and occasional ambushes at my office. Until my lawyer threatened a restraining order. Mark and I stayed in touch, our communications evolving from formal emails to occasional texts, then to coffee every few days, a lifeline of understanding in the midst of chaos.
We were careful to meet in public places, mindful of appearances, though neither of us articulated why that mattered. Three weeks after the confrontation at Oriole, I was selecting paint samples for my new apartment when my phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number. This is Elise Carrington.
We need to talk. The Regent Hotel Bar, 7pm tonight. Come alone.
I stared at the message in disbelief. What could Elise possibly want from me? My first instinct was to ignore it, but curiosity won out. I texted back.
Why would I meet with you? Her response was immediate, because what I have to tell you affects both of us. And because you owe me. I owe you nothing, I replied.
7pm. One conversation. Then we never have to speak again.
Against my better judgment, I found myself in the elegant lounge of the Regent at 6.55 that evening. Elise was already there, perched on a stool at the bar, nursing what looked like a martini. She wore a sleek black dress that highlighted her figure, hair perfectly styled, makeup flawless.
Even in the midst of divorce, she maintained her polished appearance. Catherine, she acknowledged as I slid onto the stool beside her. Thank you for coming.
I’m listening, I said coolly, declining the bartender’s offer with a shake of my head. I wanted to stay clear-headed for whatever this was. Elise took a long sip of her drink before speaking.
You and Mark seem to be getting quite close. The statement caught me off guard. That’s not your concern.
Perhaps not. She turned to face me fully. But I thought you should know exactly what you’re getting involved with.
If you invited me here to badmouth your husband. Ex-husband, soon enough. She smiled thinly.
And no, that’s not why I asked you here. I wanted to warn you. Warn me? I couldn’t keep the skepticism from my voice.
About Mark? The man you cheated on with my husband? Yes. She swirled her drink, ice clinking against glass. Mark isn’t the wronged husband he’s pretending to be.
Our marriage was over long before David came into the picture. If you’re trying to justify your affair. I’m not justifying anything, she interrupted.
I’m telling you that Mark knew about David and me for months. He didn’t care. Our marriage has been a convenient arrangement for years, he gets his perfect corporate wife for professional appearances, I get financial security and social status.
I started to stand. I’m not interested in your version of events. Did he tell you about his first wife? Elise asked, stopping me.
About what really happened? Despite myself, I hesitated. Mark had mentioned a brief early marriage but few details. Seeing my paws, Elise pressed on.
He drove her to a breakdown. Control, Catherine. That’s what Mark craves.
He controlled every aspect of her life until she couldn’t take it anymore. I don’t believe you, I said, but uncertainty had crept in. Ask him about Rebecca.
Ask him why she left the country after their divorce. Ask him about the non-disclosure agreement. Elise finished her martini in one smooth swallow.
Mark isn’t the white knight you think he is. He’s using you to punish me, just like he’s using this divorce to punish me financially. Why are you telling me this? Elise shrugged one elegant shoulder.
Consider it a professional courtesy from one round wife to another. We both made mistakes in our marriages. The difference is, I’m not pretending to be a victim.
She stood, placing money on the bar. Think about it, Catherine. Has Mark ever asked what you want, or has he been guiding you every step of the way? Suggesting strategies, recommending lawyers, being the perfect supportive friend while steering you exactly where he wants you to go? Without waiting for a response, she walked away, leaving me with troubling questions I couldn’t easily dismiss.
Later that night, I called Mark, intending to ask about his first wife. When he answered, the warmth in his voice made me hesitate. Catherine? Everything all right? Aye, yes.
I just… I took a deep breath. Do you have time to meet tomorrow? There’s something I’d like to talk about. Of course.
Lunch? There’s a new place on Riverside I’ve been meaning to try. Perfect, I agreed, deciding a public setting was best for the conversation ahead. Mark? Yes? Is there anything about your past, about your previous marriage, that I should know? The silence that followed was brief but telling.
When he spoke again, his tone was carefully neutral. I suppose there is. Tomorrow, then? Tomorrow, I confirmed, ending the call with a knot of anxiety forming in my stomach.
I spent a restless night wondering if I’d been naive, if the connection I’d felt with Mark had been manipulation rather than genuine understanding. By morning, I’d resolved to ask direct questions and judge his responses carefully. Riverside Bistro was busy with the lunch crowd when I arrived the next day.
Mark was already seated at a corner table, looking more serious than I’d seen him since our first meeting. He stood as I approached, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. Catherine? Mark? I took the seat across from him, declining a menu from the hovering waiter.
I’m not very hungry. Just coffee, then? When I nodded, he ordered for both of us, then turned his attention fully to me. You had questions about my first marriage? Direct.
No pretense. It was one of the things I’d appreciated about him. Yes.
I wrapped my hands around the water glass, needing something to hold. I met with Elise yesterday. His expression tightened almost imperceptibly.
I see. She told me to ask you about Rebecca. About why she left the country after your divorce.
About a non-disclosure agreement. Mark was silent for a long moment, his fingers tapping lightly against the tablecloth, the first nervous gesture I’d seen from him. Finally, he sighed.
Rebecca was my first wife. We married young, too young. The divorce was… difficult.
How difficult? He met my eyes directly. She had mental health issues that emerged during our marriage. Severe anxiety, depression, eventually diagnosed as bipolar disorder.
When I sought divorce, she threatened to harm herself. And the non-disclosure agreement? Standard legal protection. Her family was wealthy, concerned about privacy.
The agreement prevented either of us from discussing the marriage publicly. It was mutual, not one-sided. And her leaving the country? Her choice.
She wanted a fresh start, away from painful memories. Last I heard, she was living in London, remarried, doing well. He leaned forward slightly.
Catherine, what exactly did Elise tell you? I hesitated, then decided on complete honesty. She said you were controlling. That you drove Rebecca to a breakdown.
That you knew about her affair with David for months, and didn’t care because your marriage was just a convenient arrangement. Mark’s laugh held no humor. Of course she did.
He ran a hand through his hair. Elise excels at twisting the truth to suit her narrative. So none of it’s true? Some of it is.
His frankness surprised me. Rebecca did have a breakdown, but not because of me, because she stopped taking her medication. As for knowing about the affair? He paused as our coffee arrived, waiting until the waiter departed.
I suspected something was wrong. Elise was increasingly distant, secretive about her phone. But I didn’t have confirmation until you showed me the evidence.
And your marriage being an arrangement? His smile was sad. There’s perhaps more truth to that than I’d like to admit. We’ve been living separate lives under the same roof for years.
But that doesn’t mean I condoned or accepted her infidelity. I studied him, trying to reconcile his version with Elise’s, searching for signs of deception in his face, his tone, his body language. Why would she tell me these things? I asked finally.
Why do you think? His voice was gentle. She sees us becoming close. It threatens her narrative of being the round party in our divorce.
And perhaps? He hesitated. Perhaps what? Perhaps she’s jealous, he suggested quietly. Of whatever is developing between us.
The statement hung in the air, neither of us immediately addressing its implications. I stared at my coffee, turning his words over in my mind. Is something developing between us, Mark? I asked finally, looking up to meet his gaze.
I think you know the answer to that, he replied softly. But the timing is… complicated. Very complicated, I agreed.
We’re both vulnerable right now. Both recovering from betrayal. It would be easy to mistake comfort for connection.
Yes, it would. And yet… He reached across the table, not quite touching my hand but close enough that I felt the invitation. I find myself thinking about you even when divorce negotiations and work demands should be consuming all my attention.