After Sharing Half My Husband with His Mistress Chapter 04

After Sharing Half My Husband with His Mistress Chapter 04

I stood by the hospital window for exactly twenty-two minutes.

Headlights cut through the dark street below. Three armored SUVs pulled up to the curb. Four men in tailored suits stepped out, moving with military precision toward the entrance.

My phone buzzed in my hand.

“We are downstairs, Ms. Kensington,” a gruff voice announced through the speaker.

“I am coming.”

I didn’t walk back to Room 412. I didn’t care if Bruce was still holding Judy, wiping away her tears, or promising her the world. I refused to witness another second of his absurd, protective-husband act.

I opened my messages. I typed exactly five words to my husband.

*We are getting a divorce.*

I hit send. Then I blocked his number, powered the device off, and dropped it into the nearest trash can.

I left the hospital with nothing but the clothes on my back. I didn’t need my luggage. I didn’t need my designer shoes or my diamond rings. I just needed to leave.

The Kensington estate loomed at the end of a winding, private road. The wrought-iron gates swung open instantly as our convoy approached.

My father waited on the front steps.

He wore a thick wool robe over his pajamas, his silver hair catching the porch light. He didn’t look like a ruthless corporate titan tonight. He looked like an old man who had stayed up all night waiting for his kid.

I stepped out of the SUV.

“Dad,” I whispered.

He closed the distance and pulled me against his chest. His grip was fiercely tight, anchoring me to the ground.

“Look at your face,” he muttered. He pulled back to inspect my pale skin and tired eyes. His jaw muscles flexed, a dangerous fury simmering just beneath the surface.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I should have listened to you.”

“Stop.” He raised a hand, cutting me off. “No apologies. Not tonight.”

“He lied to me, Dad. About everything.”

“I know.”

“You know?”

“I have eyes in this city, Iris. I just waited for you to see it yourself.”

He guided me toward the massive oak doors.

“Since you’ve been wronged, just rest well at home,” he said, his tone leaving absolutely no room for debate. “Nobody touches you here.”

He didn’t ask for the grotesque details about Bruce. He didn’t ask about the mistress or the pregnancy. He just poured me a glass of water, walked me to my childhood bedroom, and shut the door.

Twenty-four hours later, the crystal chandeliers in the grand ballroom cast a golden glow over a sea of guests.

My father threw a family banquet. He wanted the entire Kensington clan to know I was back. He wanted to send a message to the city.

I held a flute of champagne, standing near the marble pillars. I wore a crimson silk gown, a stark contrast to the muted pastel dresses Bruce always forced me to wear.

“Iris,” my cousin Elena said, appearing at my elbow. “You look entirely different.”

“I feel different.”

“Good. Because someone just walked in, and the whole room stopped breathing.”

“Who?” I asked.

“Evan Montgomery.”

My fingers clamped hard around the stem of my glass.

“He’s here?” I asked, my voice suddenly tight.

“He owns half the real estate in the financial district now. Uncle Richard invited him as a courtesy. Nobody expected him to actually show up.”

I turned my head.

The heavy double doors stood open. A man strode into the ballroom, flanked by two executives.

Evan.

He wore a charcoal suit that fit his broad shoulders perfectly. Three years ago, he was a brilliant but reckless college graduate. The boy I loved. The boy I left behind without a single word of explanation to marry Bruce.

Now, he moved with lethal authority. He was the apex predator of the corporate world, controlling a massive conglomerate.

The crowd parted for him instinctively.

Evan didn’t look at the politicians clamoring for his attention. He didn’t acknowledge the socialites smiling in his direction.

His gaze locked directly onto me.

His eyes were sharp, cutting through the space between us like a physical blade. A dark, complicated emotion flashed across his features before settling into absolute ice.

He walked straight toward me.

My heart hammered against my ribs. I wanted to step back, but my feet remained glued to the marble floor.

He stopped mere inches away. He smelled like expensive scotch and cold night air.

“Evan,” I managed to say.

He didn’t offer a polite greeting. He didn’t smile.

“I heard you got married,” he murmured. His voice was low, a rich baritone that vibrated in my chest.

I swallowed hard. “Yes.”

“To a Monroe. A man who hides behind his mother’s skirt.”

“Evan, listen. Three years ago—”

He raised a single hand, silencing me instantly. The gesture was so commanding, so effortlessly dominant, that my mouth snapped shut.

He leaned in closer. His lips hovered just a fraction from my ear.

“Save your breath, Iris,” he whispered.

I stiffened, the warmth draining from my cheeks.

He pulled back slightly, tilting his head to study my face. A terrifyingly calm smirk touched the corner of his mouth.

“But it doesn’t matter now,” Evan continued, his eyes tracing the line of my jaw. “Because you’re getting a divorce soon, right?”

The champagne glass nearly slipped from my grip.

I stared at him, my mind spinning violently.

I had sent that text to Bruce less than twenty-four hours ago. My father hadn’t leaked the news to the press yet. The Monroe family was still desperately hiding the scandal.

Nobody outside my immediate family should know.

“How do you know that?” I demanded, my voice dropping to a harsh whisper.

Evan didn’t answer. He simply adjusted his cuff, his expression entirely unreadable.

“Welcome home, Iris,” he said.

He turned on his heel and walked away, disappearing into the crowd of wealthy guests.

I stood frozen by the pillar.

He knew. He knew about the divorce.

And judging by the cold certainty in his eyes, I realized he knew exactly what Bruce had done in that driveway. The real question was, what was Evan going to do with that information?