My Husband Called Me His Mistress on Livestream novel · Chapter 2 of 24

Chapter 2: I Have Never Seen This Woman

Brent walks in, disowns her on camera and has her removed; in the lobby the buyer of his company holds up a disclosure that lists another wife.

The paint was still dripping off my chin when my husband walked through my front door.

He wore the navy suit I had picked up from the tailor on Saturday.

He did not look at me.

He looked at Shelby.

"Are you hurt?" he asked her.

He took her hand, the one that had slapped me, and turned it over to check it.

Three hundred thousand people sent hearts.

"Brent," I said.

He turned his head. His eyes went over my face, my hair, my ruined blouse.

There was nothing in them. Not shame, not fear. Nothing.

"Ma'am," he said. "I don't know how you got in here."

Nobody in the room moved.

The redhead tilted her ring light toward him to get the shot.

"It's Leigh," I said. "Say my name, Brent."

"I have never seen this woman in my life."

His voice was flat and tidy. It was the voice he used on contractors who were behind schedule.

Shelby slid her arm through his.

"She's been following us for months," she told the lens. "He's been too kind to say it."

Brent nodded.

He actually nodded.

The comments went wild. They called him a good man. They called me a psycho. One said, give the wife a medal.

I looked at my husband's face, and I looked for the crack.

He glanced up once, at the black dome in the ceiling, and then away from it very fast.

He knew. He knew it recorded.

He just did not think anyone would ever watch.

"Security is on its way," Brent said. "And I've called the police."

"Good," I said.

That surprised him. His jaw moved.

"You've been calling my phone for weeks," he said, louder, for the viewers. "You sent me messages pretending to be my wife."

"I did not pretend to be anything."

"She has a key card," Shelby said, pointing at my purse. "Look. She stole one."

The redhead zoomed in on the hook by the door.

My purse hung there. The card sat in the front pocket where it always sat.

For eight years it had been mine.

I crossed the foyer and took the purse down.

Two officers stepped out of the elevator before I got to the door.

They looked at the paint. They looked at the camera. They looked at Brent, who started talking before they asked a single question.

He talked well. He always had.

He said I was a delusional woman who had fixated on him after a business dinner.

He said he had been afraid to report me because of his company's reputation.

He said the cameras were there because his wife had asked her friends to help her feel safe.

Shelby wiped a fake tear.

One of the officers turned to me. "Ma'am, do you live here?"

I could have said yes.

I could have shown him the lease, the deed in the safe, my mother's name on the building's trust.

Any of it would have ended the stream in a minute.

Brent knew that.

I saw him know it. His shoulders were pulled tight, and he was waiting for me to say it.

And I understood something small and cold.

He was not afraid I would tell the truth.

He was afraid I would tell all of it.

"I'll go," I said.

The officer blinked. "You don't want to give a statement?"

"Not today."

Brent's shoulders came down a quarter inch.

I took one step toward him, and the redhead swung the camera to follow.

"Brent," I said, quietly, for him and the dome in the ceiling. "Keep your phone close. You are going to want to call me tonight."

For one second his composure broke.

Then he smiled at the lens.

"Poor thing," he said. "Please get her some help."

I walked out.

I walked past the roses on the floor and the hoodies and the ring light.

I walked down the hall with red paint on my shoes.

The crew followed me into the elevator, because the stream had to keep going.

All the way down, the redhead kept talking into her phone.

"Stay with us, fam. We're escorting the homewrecker out of the building. Don't touch that dial."

Every floor, the comments said something worse.

Somebody wrote my name. Somebody wrote the name of my street. Somebody wrote, I know where she works.

The doors opened on the lobby.

The doorman half stood up behind his desk.

I shook my head at him, once.

Behind him, the revolving door turned, and a man in a charcoal suit stepped through it with a leather folder under his arm.

He was tall and dark-haired, gray at the temples, and he was looking at my face, not at the camera.

He stopped three feet from me.

"Mrs. Pruden," he said.

It was not a question.

"Yes," I said.

The redhead pushed in with the ring light. "And who are you, sir?"

He did not even glance at her.

"Nick Garland," he said to me. "I buy your husband's company on Friday."

He opened his folder and took out a single page.

"I came here for a four-thirty appointment. Your husband's lawyer told me his wife would sign my spousal consent in the apartment."

He turned the page around.

The name typed on the signature line was Shelby Dray Pruden.

"Which of you is lying to me?" he asked.

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