145 My Husband’s Mistress Handed Me Her Coat, Thinking I Was The Housekeeper. She Had No Idea She Was Standing In My Multi-Million Dollar Estate.
The quiet afternoon ended with three sharp electronic beeps from the front door.
Someone had unlocked it.
I stayed exactly where I was, leaning against the kitchen island, listening as the rhythmic click of expensive heels echoed across the wide oak floors of the foyer.
A woman stepped inside without knocking.
She wore tailored cream slacks, a silk blouse, and enough confidence to make it seem like the house already belonged to her.
Her skin looked flawless.
Her jewelry was understated but expensive.
She glanced around the entryway with the casual inspection of someone evaluating a property she expected to own soon.
Then she noticed me.
Her eyes swept over my oversized gray sweatshirt, my bare face, and the claw clip holding my hair in a messy twist.
Almost instantly, her expression shifted.
She decided exactly who I was.
“Oh, good,” she said, slipping off a fur-trimmed designer coat and tossing it toward me. “You’re here.”
I caught it before it hit the floor.
“Tell Elliot I’m waiting,” she continued. “And be careful with the coat. It costs more than you probably make in a month.”
The perfume lingering on the collar was immediately familiar.
Jo Malone.
I had given that bottle to Elliot last Christmas.
I folded the coat over one arm.
“He’s still at a meeting,” I replied evenly. “He hasn’t made it home yet.”
She sighed dramatically and pulled a gold iPhone from her designer clutch.
“Yes, he has. He texted me ten minutes ago saying he was almost here.”
Without waiting for a response, she waved a dismissive hand.
“Go find him.”
Then she added,
“And make me an iced oat-milk latte. Two pumps of vanilla. Don't overdo the espresso.”
She walked deeper into the house as though she'd lived there for years.
Her fingertips glided across the marble countertop I had spent months choosing, redesigning, and overseeing during construction.
“Nice kitchen,” she said, scanning the room.
“A little too traditional for me, but Elliot already promised I can redo the master suite after the divorce.”
I couldn't help smiling.
Just a little.
“Did he?”
She looked up from her phone, clearly annoyed that I'd spoken.
“I wasn't asking for a conversation.”
She tilted her head.
“What was your name again?”
A brief pause.
“Maria?”
Another pause.
“Rosa?”
“Victoria,” I answered.
I draped her expensive coat neatly over the back of one of the barstools.
She frowned slightly.
Maybe because I hadn't hurried.
Maybe because I didn't look embarrassed.
Before she could say anything else, the low rumble of a luxury engine rolled up the private driveway.
Both of us turned toward the front windows.
A familiar black sedan came to a smooth stop outside.
She smiled immediately, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her blouse before checking her reflection in the dark screen of her phone.
“Finally,” she murmured.
Then she looked at me again.
“Go open the door for him, Victoria.”
She smiled with practiced superiority.
“And don't forget my latte.”
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