Chapter 2: The Other Woman

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Three years after I married Marcus Ellison, he took a mistress.

People in town whispered about it behind gas station counters and at Sunday services, the kind of gossip that stuck like humidity in July. I kept my head high, but every time I bought coffee or stood in line at the post office, I felt their eyes on me. It was a strange sort of loneliness, the kind that seeps in when everyone knows your business.

Her name was Natalie. Natalie Winters.

It sounded like the kind of name you'd find on a romance paperback at the local library—poised, untouched by real hardship. She had a way of walking that made you think she’d never slipped on black ice or stubbed her toe on a Lego.

Just like her name—

Standing alone, proud and unyielding.

Natalie was the type who could show up at the Fourth of July parade in white linen and not sweat a drop, chin lifted, eyes daring you to judge her. She wore heartbreak like a badge, and never seemed afraid of anyone’s opinion.

She refused to be the other woman,

but loved Marcus too much to walk away.

It was the oldest story in town, yet somehow more tragic in person. Natalie held herself like she was the one owed an apology, not the one who’d broken another woman’s home.

Unable to take the pain, she’d run off from town soon enough.

One day she’d be at the farmer’s market with Marcus, the next, gone like the morning mist over the river. She’d vanish, leave a trail of half-packed suitcases and unanswered texts, and everyone would wait for Marcus’s next meltdown.

Every time, Marcus would search for her like a madman.

He’d drive all the way to the Florida border if he had to, making promises and burning bridges, never stopping to ask if he was the one at fault. The rumor mill would buzz louder than the cicadas on a summer night.

And after he found her, he cherished her even more.

They’d come back to town—him all proud, her draped on his arm like a reward. For a while, he’d pretend to be the doting lover, dropping her name at every dinner party and letting her redecorate the living room in shades of ice blue and silver.

Counting up, this was already the third time she’d run away from Maple Heights.

This time, it happened to be my birthday.

"Ma’am, is Mr. Ellison really leaving?"

The air was still thick with the perfume from my unwrapped birthday bouquet when Tanya burst in, her voice on the edge of panic:

"Aren’t you going to stop him? Didn’t Mr. Ellison promise you…"

Marcus had promised to spend my twenty-fifth birthday with me.

I’d even ordered his favorite bourbon cake from Mrs. Franklin’s bakery a month in advance, picked out a new dress for the occasion, and called my closest friends. The day was supposed to be ours—just the two of us, no drama, no scandals. I should’ve known better.

Suddenly, I thought of the first time I met Natalie Winters.

It was after Marcus returned from a business trip down South. He’d heard a girl had saved his life.

It felt like something out of an old Southern ballad—the hero rescued by a mysterious stranger. I’d been curious, a little anxious, but mostly determined to do the right thing.

I asked him to take me to her place so I could thank her.

She was sitting on a swing Marcus had built himself, shining like a summer star.

The backyard was alive with crickets, the porch light catching in her hair. She looked up and smiled, not at all surprised to see me. There was a cool confidence in the way she pushed herself on the swing, bare feet brushing the dew-wet grass.

But when Marcus turned away, she leaned in close to my ear and laughed softly:

"So, even someone he doesn’t love dares to be Mrs. Ellison?"

"Are you sure you can win against me?"

Her breath smelled faintly of spearmint. There was no malice in her voice, just a sly curiosity, like she was sizing up a new rival at a bake-off.

Her words stung, but I forced a smile, the kind you wear when you’re desperate not to cry in public.

There was no need to compete.

I could never compare to her.

I smiled and put away the divorce papers on the table.

It was an empty kind of smile—the one you practice in the mirror before a funeral. The divorce papers were tucked inside a blue folder, neat as can be, waiting for a signature that I wasn’t sure I really wanted.

"Tanya, my list of what I brought into the marriage—it’s still here, right?"

Tanya nodded, her hands trembling a little as she reached for the neatly folded list in the desk drawer. She knew what was coming, but didn’t say a word.