Chapter 3 - The Mistress Who Wanted My PlaceSophia Reynolds called me the following morning.

I almost ignored the number.

Then curiosity won.

"Hello, Sophia."

She sounded startled.

"Claire?"

"Yes."

"I wasn't expecting you to answer."

"You called my phone."

A brief silence followed.

Then she laughed softly.

"I suppose you know about Vincent and me."

"I do."

"I never wanted you to find out this way."

"How considerate."

Her tone sharpened.

"There's no reason to be cruel."

I looked at the breakfast sitting untouched before me.

"Sophia, what exactly do you want?"

She hesitated.

Then she said something I would remember for years.

"I think you should stop making this difficult for him."

I almost smiled.

"For Vincent?"

"He's under tremendous pressure. His businesses, his responsibilities, the people depending on him. He needs peace."

"And you provide that?"

"I understand him."

"Congratulations."

She inhaled.

"You don't have to be sarcastic."

"Then don't call a man's wife and ask her to make his affair more comfortable."

Her voice changed.

"Vincent loves me."

For a moment, I waited for the familiar pain.

It never came.

"Then you have my congratulations."

"What?"

"If he loves you, I hope you enjoy being with him."

"You're not going to fight for your marriage?"

I looked toward the garden.

"No."

The word seemed to confuse her.

"You can't simply walk away."

"Watch me."

I ended the call.

Ten minutes later, Vincent appeared in the doorway.

"Did Sophia call you?"

"Yes."

His expression darkened.

"What did she say?"

"Ask her."

"Claire, don't do this."

"Do what?"

"Act like you don't care."

I turned toward him.

"Would you prefer I pretend?"

He rubbed a hand across his face.

"I made a mistake."

"A mistake is forgetting to buy milk. You made a series of decisions."

"She doesn't mean anything."

"Then why are you still defending her?"

He had no answer.

I stood.

"Vincent, I want a separation."

His face changed instantly.

"No."

I blinked.

"No?"

"We're not separating."

"You don't get to decide that alone."

"You're my wife."

"And you're my husband. Apparently, neither title has meant much to you lately."

He stepped closer.

"Claire, I love you."

I looked at him.

"Do you?"

"Of course."

"Then tell me what I did yesterday."

He frowned.

"What?"

"Where did I go? Who did I meet? What have I been doing every Tuesday and Thursday evening for the past four months?"

He stared.

I continued.

"What's my favorite flower?"

"Claire—"

"What book am I reading?"

"Stop."

"What happened to me last October?"

His expression tightened.

I waited.

Last October, I had spent three days in the hospital with severe dehydration after collapsing at a charity event.

Vincent had sent flowers.

White roses.

He hadn't visited until the third day.

He looked away.

"I've been busy."

"Yes," I whispered. "You have."

I walked past him.

He caught my hand, but this time there was no anger in his grip.

Only desperation.

"Tell me how to fix this."

I looked at our joined hands.

Three years earlier, I would have given anything to hear those words.

Now they came too late.

"You can't fix something you still refuse to understand."

That afternoon, Sophia arrived at the mansion.

She walked into the living room wearing a cream-colored designer coat and carrying a handbag worth more than my first car.

Vincent had bought it for her.

I knew because I had seen the receipt.

"Claire," she said sweetly. "I thought we should talk face-to-face."

Vincent emerged from his study.

"Sophia? What are you doing here?"

She ignored him.

"I think all three of us need to be honest."

I set down my tea.

"Wonderful idea."

She lifted her chin.

"Vincent and I have a connection you can't understand."

I nodded.

"Then perhaps you should explain it to him while I finish packing."

Vincent turned sharply.

"Packing?"

Sophia smiled before she could stop herself.

I noticed.

So did Vincent.

"You're leaving?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Where?"

"Somewhere I can sleep without wondering whose perfume is on my pillow."

His expression twisted.

Sophia stepped closer to him.

"Vincent, maybe this is for the best."

He turned toward her.

"Don't."

She froze.

"What?"

"I said don't."

His voice was cold enough to silence the room.

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For the first time, Sophia seemed to realize that my leaving wasn't the victory she had imagined.

And Vincent seemed to realize that losing me would be more complicated than replacing one woman with another.